Pearl Harbor 1941
by Cheryl W
Summary: Total AU. The brothers are soldiers at Pearl Harbor during the sneak attack in WWII. No slash
1. Chapter 1

Letters from Pearl Harbor

Pearl Harbor 1941

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: If you don't like AU, then this story is not for you. The boys aren't ghost hunters but soldiers and Dean's not afraid of flying…he's one of the Navy's best pilots. Also, I do not intend any malice or hold any prejudices toward Japan but I was trying to channel the feelings that the characters might have expressed under the circumstances.

Summary:Total AU. The brothers are soldiers at Pearl Harbor during the sneak attack in WWII. No slash.

December 6th, 1941

Dean,

Today, seeing you on Pearl's base, it was good. No, crap, it was great, Dean! No matter what you think I have missed you. Dad too. And just because I dropped out of the flight school and went to Intelligence it doesn't mean I intended to turn my back on our family. Dad was the one that said I shamed the family when I broke the family tradition of being a pilot. I tried it Dean, I really did but I was never going to be half the pilot Dad was or even a quarter of the pilot you are. (Yes, I'm finally ready to admit you're better at something than Dad and I both).

You looked fit, almost respectable in that flyboy uniform. I'ld say you haven't changed in the two years we've been apart but you have, I have. I feel like we both became men while we were apart…well I did. You were a man at, what? Four years old. I know, don't start. Ok, fine, how about you tell me if you knew I was at Pearl Harbor. I didn't know you were here, I swear that, Dean. I wasn't avoiding you. But you didn't look that surprised to see me. Maybe I'm just paranoid…course that's what Dad taught us to be: Always on our guard, always willing to do our duty to God and country.

I want to see you again. Not for five minutes over a quick beer. I want some real time together, Dean. I want us to swap stories about the past two years. I want to know how you got the small scar above your brow and yes, how many women have fallen hopelessly in love with you. And I do want to know Dad's OK, that the crops are good and that Bobby Singer's still coming out on Saturday nights to play cards with Dad. Please, Dean, I don't want to walk away again, for us to continue to act like strangers. You're my big brother and I love you. That's got to count for something with you, earn me a few hours on a free Sunday you have.

You can send a reply to me in C/O barracks 14.

Stay safe, Dean.

Your brother,

Sam

PS - I know you will think this is lame, but I have some letters that I've written to you over the past two years. I know I should have mailed them to you but I didn't and I just didn't. I guess the letters were a way for me to feel close to you. (I know, that was too touchy feely for you but you're just going to have to deal with that.) I just wanted you to know they are here, in a chest under my bed just in case something would happen. There's even a letter for Dad but I'm not ready to mail that one yet. Not sure when I'll ever be ready to mail it.

December 8th, 1941

Dean,

I don't know if you're alive or dead and that's killing me. When I heard the first explosions, when I knew it was an attack, my first thought was of you. I wondered where you were, if you were in the thick of things, if you were hurt. I ran all the way to the harbor, stood there watching those bastards kill us, heard the screams and I just wanted to find you, still do.

It's on our heads, Intelligence's, this travesty. We were supposed to be guarding against this, protecting those men against seen and unforeseen enemies. I know you would never see it this way, but I felt like I was protecting you, that the information I tracked down and found out was keeping you safe. (And I can prove it too: I found out about that tropical storm that your unit would have flown right into back in September. I told my CO that he either was calling it into your CO or I would. See, so little brother's can handle the role reversal…just not all the time, not permanently, never permanently. Please don't have left me alone, Dean. Please).

When I saw all those planes flying through the maze of ships, it made a mockery of every false pride we had, I had. And if you're not OK. You have to be OK, Dean. You're my big brother, you protect me, you protect the guys in your unit, you protect the whole free world. You're one of those heroes you used to tell me about when I couldn't sleep at night.

I saw a few planes got up, survived the strafing raids and the bombing on the hangar deck. And honestly I wasn't sure if I wanted one of them to be you. I wanted you alive, unhurt but not rushing into a dog fight, putting yourself in the sights of the enemy that knew no mercy. I couldn't see inside the cockpit or even the numbers on the side, just saw the planes streaking by, Zeros on their tails one moment and the next, I watched the tables turned, saw the Zeros drop out of the sky in a flare of fire and metal and I was glad, felt happy at their death. I've never know this type of hatred before, this need for revenge. Maybe I understand some of Dad's motives now, why he turned us into military men before we were barely able to talk, taught us how to shoot and read maps and why he hates so deeply those who started the great war.

I don't even know where to send this letter, who to give it to, who is left in your unit. I went over there, to your barracks and it was a hollowed out ruin, still smoking. And the hangar, that was worse, had me wanting to throw up, at the bodies, at the shell of planes crumbling on the pockmarked runway. For hours I looked through the bodies there for you, wondering if the next corpse I turned over would be you. I bawled like a baby when night fell, when I couldn't search anymore, when I hadn't found you, left with despair and hope churning in me.

But out of all this hell, with all the lives lost and this betrayal and this hatred burning in me, it's the fear that you are gone that's the worst, consumes me even as I perform my duties, as I search for anyone who knew where you were at the time of the attack, as I tally the dead and hear the plans for our retaliation. None of it breaks through the hurt, the fear in me. I keep expecting to turn that corner by the hospital again and see you standing there, like I did two days ago. To feel that rush of happiness overcome me again, except ten fold now. But you're not there, no matter how many times in a day I go there, you're never there. Where are you Dean? Please, you can't be gone, you can't leave me, not when we just found each other again.

Your brother,

Sam

TBC

If anyone wants more of this story, I would love a review of encouragement. I really feel stupid posting this, was actually going to chicken out and post it under an alias so anyone who usually likes my stuff wouldn't hold this crazy AU against me. (I should really remember that insanity is something one should try to hide, not expose any chance a strange storyline pops into one's head.)

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	2. Chapter 2

Pearl Harbor 1941

Pearl Harbor 1941

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: I am awed and honored by the wonderful reviews for the first chapter and that anyone's taken a chance on reading this craziness! You all have made me glad I risked it all and posted it under my own name. Thank you!!

Again, I do not intend any malice or hold any prejudices toward Japan but I was trying to channel the feelings that the characters might have expressed under the circumstances.

Summary:Total AU. The brothers are soldiers at Pearl Harbor during the sneak attack in WWII. No slash.

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December 7th, 1941

Sam,

You better be alright. I didn't spend all those years saving you from bullies for you to run out on me. I don't want to learn that I failed to protect my pain in the butt brother. Just be alright, Sammy. I even said a prayer for you. That has to rank as pretty desperate, as something the Big Guy won't turn a deaf ear to, right? Man, I just want to see you again, standing there, that shocked look on your face like when you saw me yesterday. That was priceless. I loved that, Sam.

Before you get all worried, I'm alright, just stuck on the other side of the island for a few days where my plane left me. I would have followed those bastards the whole way back to Japan if my engine hadn't cut out because my fuel was gone. But I took some of them down, watched as their planes fall out of the sky. And I was happy. I was glad they were dying, that they were watching their friends die like I had watched mine. I wanted revenge, got some but it hasn't been enough, I want more, I want to dive bomb my plane into their ship, into their capital or emperor's palace or wherever their leader lives.

I only know of five planes that got off the ground. Two of the other guys were in my squadron. I saw three of those planes go down. The hangar was like a slaughter house, the strafing runs mercilessly cutting down guys running for their planes, guys I knew, guys running next to me. The guy I was tightest with in my squadron, he took a bullet in the back, landed on me, took me to the tarmac. Two more bullets hit him but they never reached me. Sammy, I feel guilty being alive, guilty praying that you're alive when all those others aren't. But you're my brother, Sam. Out of all the people in this world, you're the one I want saved most of all.

I can't believe this happened. It felt like one of Dad's training exercises, running, dodging danger, acting on instincts. But they were real bullets, real torpedoes, and people are dead today, lots of people, soldier and civilian alike. And I don't even know why. I don't understand what sparked this hatred, this merciless attack. When I joined the service I thought I would die fighting but today I almost died just sitting down, eating breakfast.

I should have come to see you the first day I got to Pearl. I knew you were there, paid a buddy of mine to track down your location. But I didn't think you wanted to see me. You made the break from the family pretty clean. Now I wish I had forced you to see me, had known you would look at me like you did yesterday. Like you were actually happy to see me, had missed me. I would be lying if I said I hadn't missed you, little brother. It's been a rough two years for me and I know it's been hard on Dad too, no matter the blustery words he said to you before you left. He loves you, Sammy. Nothing in the world could change that.

Great, now I'm writing like a woman. You're probably be ready to sniff this letter for perfume if I keep writing girly stuff like this.

I will find you, Sam. I will. Just be there to be found, alright, Sammy. Be there waiting for me.

Take care of yourself little brother.

Dean

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December 10th, 1941

Sam,

Scuttlebutt says you weren't hurt in the attack. I planned on confirming that with my own eyes but that doesn't seem in the cards, not with me flying out today at 1400 hours and you being in classified meetings all day.

Before you think I arranged this, us not seeing each other, I only got back to the base late this morning. The locals are a lot less friendly now that we've brought the war to their paradise. I had to barter away my watch to get a ride back to Pearl. (Dad's going to be pissed I gave away grandfather's watch. I can just hear him, "I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I knew you were going to just give it away.")

When I went looking for you this morning your buddy gave me your two letters. I haven't read them in detail yet, thought they would help pass the time when we're heading wherever we're heading. (You probably know where, don't you, you little jerk.) I'll write Dad, tell him that we're both OK. I can't imagine how he's reacting to the news of the attack. I wish I hadn't told him in my last letter that I was being sent here. He's probably packing a bag with his favorite weapons and threatening to grab the first boat or plane heading this way. I would hate to be Bobby Singer right now, stuck with trying to talk Dad down.

Now that we're in this war, it seems likely that our being out of touch with each other will change from being by choice to the way it's just going to be. I know I should have told you this before but I'm proud of you Sammy. You shouldn't waste your God-given talents, not when you can save thousands of lives working in Intel. (Thanks by the way for the tropical storm warning. I volunteered to fly in it anyways but knowing what to expect – well you might have even saved my life, little brother. Maybe.) And don't take the blame for the attack, Sam. The Japs are the only one's any of us blame, talking peace at home and doing murder here. How could any of us have predicted such evil? That they would value our deaths more than their own lives as they dive bombed into our ships. It wasn't your fault, Sam so stop thinking it was, that you could have stopped it when the whole American military couldn't.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't relieved that you will be staying out of the thick of the fighting, that you'll be safe and sound behind some desk fifty miles from the front line. Knowing that will help me keep my focus on saving my own butt instead of worrying about yours. And don't worry, I know how to fly circles around the Japs. Worse thing I have to worry about is how I'm going to keep track of all my kills. Dad will ask, you know. It will be the first question out of his mouth when I get state side, that and wanting to see proof that I earned my ace wings. As the prodigal son, you won't be subject to that inspection. All you will need to do is show up on his doorstep and that will be enough for him, Sammy. I promise you that.

Well, I've got to start packing. I left you my bracelet only because the engraving won't stand up to the sea air. The stupid "n" is already wearing thin and some guys were teasing me that it said "DEAR". I'm trusting you to keep it safe and give it back to me when we're both back home. Since that praying thing seemed to keep you safe, I think I might make a habit of praying for you. Don't get all teary eyed, I once prayed for our old dog Sergeant too so remember the company you're in.

You better take care of yourself or I'll have to track you down and haul your carcass back to Dad for the dressing down of your life.

Your brother,

Dean

PS. If you feel like writing to me or dusting off those old letters to me that you have under your bed, if they ever find their way to me, I would read them.

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TBC…

Thanks for reading and allowing me to warp not only Supernatural but WWII!

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.


	3. Chapter 3

Pearl Harbor 1941

Pearl Harbor 1941

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Ok, I goofed on two points last chapter: Dean has read Sam's letters and Dean's departure time is 1400 (2pm). Sorry for the slipup! Also, I have to offer up an apology for not replying to your awesome reviews! I really do value each and every one because, let me tell you, without those wonderful words of support, I would keep all this craziness to myself and probably be in some psycho ward instead of free in the world writing SN fan fiction. (Guess you have to decide if you're doing the world a favor by encouraging me…)

Summary:Total AU. The brothers are soldiers at Pearl Harbor during the sneak attack in WWII. No slash.

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December 10th, 1941

1350 hours

Shielding his eyes against the sun to better see the military passenger plane he was lined up with his squadron to board, Dean thought fleetingly of his father's advice. '_Never fly a plane that you didn't check over yourself_.' Reminded him of the long hours he had spent at his dad's side, learning the ins and outs of their crop duster plane. '_You want to learn to fly this plane you have to learn how she runs._' It was part of his father's 'training' that he had loved and his little brother had hated, was the start of some of the most heated contentions between John Winchester and his youngest son.

Now harsh regret boiled in Dean, regret that he had let his dad and brother's turbulent relationship rob him of his brother for the past two years. Wished that the lines hadn't been so ruthlessly drawn that he had had to pick a side or be severed in half..right through his heart. In the end, he had chosen his father, knew that Sammy didn't need him, seemingly didn't want him in his life. Didn't mean the choice hadn't nearly killed him, didn't mean that he hadn't regretted his choice sometimes. '_Like today_,' he thought, bitterly disappointed, nearly devastated that he was leaving without seeing Sam, without getting a chance to say goodbye in person to his little brother.

'_What are you doing to do, Dean? Cry?_!' he caustically chided, mortified that his emotions weren't locked down as tightly as they should be, as he _needed_ them to be. '_Go AWOL to see Sam?! Yeah, like that would go over big with Dad. And Sam? He would really disown me then. Forever possibly. He has a future in the military, has a career, has a life to look forward to living, goals. Hope._' The last conclusion came out of him without warning, too sharply, too enviously, wrapped in too much truth. No, Sam didn't need a black sheep brother ruining his reputation, didn't really need him in his life at all…no matter what Sam wrote in his letters.

Dean grimaced, at the honesty of his thoughts, at the lies he had told Sam. He had written in his letter to Sam that he had barely looked at this brother's letters, would read them later. But, in truth, he had read them at least three times each, had reverently put them in his pocket for easy access, so he could often reassure himself that they were still there. That he had some part of Sam with him, that he wasn't leaving today alone. Seemingly of its own accord, his hand slipped into his pocket to finger the two letters.

His head snapping to the right as a bark of "Winchester" ripped across the tarmac, he saw his commanding officer approaching. Stepping from the moving line, Dean snapped a smart salute and a crisp, "Yes Sir" as he came to stand at attention before the older man, wondering what new reprimand was being tacked on his military records now.

"Winchester, an officer from Intelligence is coming to see you," the CO gruffly announced, just another checkmark on his already piss poor day. But he was surprised to see the usually steely nerved Winchester stiffen at the news. "Don't worry, they just want to do a debriefing, learn about the conditions on the other side of the island where you landed, find and retrieve your plane," he added on, wanting to reassure the younger man whose skills he had come to highly respect, who he had come to like, in spite of the kid's tendencies toward reckless bravery.

His CO's first words had been a sucker punch, had sent Dean's heart thundering in his chest, resurrected hope where there hadn't been any. And it had taken every ounce of discipline that his father _and_ the Military had drilled into him for him to resist the urge to drop his eyes from his CO's and search for the sight of his brother. But his CO's next words had peppered his joy with doubt. When his CO spoke again, he felt like he was again dodging the Japanese strafing run, trying to stay alive, to guard his fragile hope that this was a ruse, was a ruse his brother had devised to see him.

Shaking his head, sadness and bitterness in the gesture, the CO said, "I think they believe your plane just might be one of the only Corsair planes on the island that they can patch together and get back into the air. Goodness knows nothing's going to be flying off of Hickman's Field."

The reference to Hickman's Field ignited memories of bullets and explosions, fire and death to flicker in Dean's mind's eye, reminded him to be grateful that Sam was even alive, that he was alive. That he was saying goodbye to his brother by letter, not by looking down at an American flag covered casket. "Yes Sir," he curtly replied, uncertain if he was consenting to making his report or agreeing with his CO's statement about the airfield that had once been Pearl's pride and joy. An airfield that now was a graveyard of men and machine, just like the harbor itself.

"Give your report and then load up, Winchester. We've got a war to be a part of," the officer ordered, trying to sight the pilot's focus on the task ahead. Putting a hand on Dean's shoulder, he gave it a squeeze before he walked away, left the younger man standing there at attention, waiting for some Intelligence pencil pusher to waste his time, to turn the kid's actions in the face of the attack into statistics instead of heroism. "Kid deserves a medal, not a one line mention in an inventory report to Washington," he grumbled under his breath, dreading the notion that popped into his head that Winchester would have plenty of opportunity to earn glory in this war, hoped it wouldn't have to be posthumously awarded to the kid's family back in Kansas.

Left alone, Dean dropped his salute and let his sack slide from his shoulder to land on the ground. Rubbing the back of his head, he gave a glance back to the men of his squadron as they embarked on the plane, knew that not a one of them harbored any hope of seeing one of their family members before they boarded, before they went into certain danger, maybe died serving their country. '_And you think you deserve to see Sam_?!' he internally scoffed, cursing himself for his selfishness, for his _need_ to see his brother, for the foolish hope he had let flare in him at even the mention of an Intelligence officer. He was in a war now, not detention, where his little brother's faking to be sick and pleading with the nurse for his big brother allowed them to skip out of school, be home on time so their father would never knew that Dean had gotten into trouble.

No, this debriefing was not a ruse, a con, was real, was maybe crucial in a way Dean had no way of fathoming. And logic would not let him honestly believe that Sam would be the Intelligence officer selected to gather his report, not out of all the intelligence officers stationed on Pearl. But no matter how he fought against it, Dean's too vulnerable heart wouldn't relinquish the faint hope that Sam was coming, that Sam would find a way to be here, to see him. '_But I'm the one that said I would find him. That all he had to do was wait for me. And now I'm leaving him behind, breaking my promise to him.'_ Self hatred coiled in him as he realized that the letter he left Sam wasn't enough, would never be enough to fill the promise he had made, especially if he didn't survive the war.

Hand coming up to cover his mouth a moment before sweeping across his brow, Dean Winchester stood there alone, the Hawaiian sun beating down on him, a plane waiting to take him possibly to his death and offered up a prayer to a God that he had bitterly scoffed at before. '_Please just let me see Sam again. Let me see with my own eyes that he's OK. Help me to keep my promise to him. I never asked for mom back, I never asked to be free of the responsibility of helping Dad run the farm, I never asked You for much but I'm begging you to keep Sam safe. I'm asking that You let me say goodbye to my brother.'_

It was then that a jeep appeared on the glimmering horizon across the tarmac's expansion. Squinting to try and make out the driver, Dean found that he could identify nothing familiar at that range, not under the uniform and hat that the man wore. Stomach churning, Dean braced himself for disappointment, told himself again and again that it was not Sam in that jeep, that fate didn't care what he wanted, that God wasn't listening. Ruthlessly, he forced himself to face the facts: his last sight of his brother was five days ago.. in front of the hospital.. when they had shared scarcely five minutes together. That that brief encounter would have to last him for as long as the war raged, until they could meet again, until they could be brothers again.

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'_Dean would be proud of me_,' Sam thought as he sent his confiscated jeep flying over the torn up tarmac, his lie to the guards at the air field entrance still echoing in his head. '_Yeah, official business_,' he scoffed, wondering just when he had turned into his brother who knew how to hotwire cars and con his way into and out of trouble like a pro.

'_All's fair in love and war_,' came to Sam's mind and he knew it was for both love _and_ war that he was crossing the lines, taking risks he rarely contemplated, telling lies more confidently than the truth. When his meeting had finally broken for lunch, it was pure stupid luck that he had stopped back in the barracks and saw the letters lying on his bed. He had never been so relieved to see his brother's scrawl in his whole entire life.

With legs shaky with relief, he sunk down onto his bed, eyes glued to the two envelopes with his name in Dean's handwriting embossed on them. Reverently he had picked up the first letter, opened it and instantly latched onto each word like it was a first breath for lungs that had been starving. His fingers had stroked over the word "Sammy", the once hated nickname transforming into the tenderest of endearments. After the horror and the fear and the hatred of the last couple of days, the nickname was something personal, called to an innocent part of him struggling to survive. It linked him to happier times, tied him to his family, to his dad, to his brother, was sacred when so many things were being taken away from him, were being tainted.

With relief still washing over him like a tsunami from his brother's first letter, from knowing that Dean hadn't been seriously hurt in the sneak attack on the base, Sam had opened the second letter. When his brother's bracelet fell into his hand, the tinkling of the silver links into his palm sent shockwaves through him that rivaled the percussions of the bombs that had ripped apart the metal hulls of the ships in the harbor. His breath gone, knocked out of him as if from a punch to the stomach, cold dread had drenched him, sloshed over his relief like water over a struggling candle flame. For a moment he couldn't move, could only stare down at his brother's name engraved in the silver of the bracelet.

With movement born out of panic, Sam had pulled the letter free of the envelope. His eyes had feverishly scanned his brother's script until he had come to the fateful words: '_flying out today at 1400 hours'. _He very nearly crumpled the letter in his haste to look at his watch. Curses erupting at the mere ten minutes that he had before his brother's departure time, he had shot to his feet, shoving the letters and the bracelet in his pocket as he ran for the door.

Stealing the jeep had been easier than Sam thought. There had not been a single spark of moral compunction to slow him down, not when he was drenched in the need to see his brother, to catch Dean before he left Pearl, was thrust into the dangers of the war. To his surprise, Sam found his fingers and brain remembered the task easily, as if his brother had taught him to hotwire a car only yesterday instead of ten years ago.

As for the guards at the entrance to the air field? They were merely obstacles to what he wanted and Sam discovered that there was little he would not do to get past them. Lying had been his first tactic, his next would have been more physical, more his brother's style of negotiation than his own. In the back of his mind, Sam easily recognized his brother's outlaw influence on him when danger had been near, knew that by adopting some of Dean's traits he had survived, had saved himself when Dean had not been there to do it. '_I'll have to thank him for that someday, someday when we're both safe, sitting on the porch swing on our farm_.'

A pang of homesickness shot through Sam at that vision: him and Dean sitting on the porch, looking out at the flat fields of their farm as the sun set, as the moon made its journey across the night sky and stars seemed only a plane ride away. For the first time in two years, Sam allowed himself to fondly remember Kansas, to miss their family farm, to admit that he wanted to see his father, to spend time with his brother, to be Sammy not Lieutenant Winchester, to go home. '_Great, after two years of vowing never to go back, now when I can't go home, it's all I want. To go home, for Dean to go home, for us to be there together, no war to fight, no duties to fulfill, just the two of us sitting there on the swing, talking. Being brothers again.'_

Sam hated that it had been his pride that had kept him from being with his brother for the past two years, knew that he had nearly single-handedly severed the bond he and Dean had always shared. Equally he heaped hatred upon the Japanese for forcing their hands, for drawing the United States into a war that knew no mercy, seemingly gave no quarter. Cursed the hands of fate for not making concessions for regret, for ill placed foolish pride, for lost time, for brothers.

Struggling to get his emotions back under control, he prepared to fight tooth and nail to get what he wanted, what he needed: to see Dean again, to see his brother before he was gone, before fate separated them now instead of his pride. Pushing the jeep faster, Sam didn't react when the vehicle became airborne as it crested over a small hill. But as the jeep's frame crunched back onto the tarmac, Sam felt his breath catch, not at the impact but at the sight of a lone man standing separate from men boarding a plane. _Dean_, poured from him in question, in need, in desperation.

Bottoming out the jeep on one crater and barely managing to keep the vehicle from careening into another rutted section of the macadam, Sam only fisted his hands whitely around the steering wheel, sent the jeep faster toward the soldier, certain that it was his brother, that it just had to be Dean. Finally, when mere yards separated them, Sam couldn't fight the smile that broke across his face, felt joy eclipse everything else.

Slamming on the brakes and cutting the engine almost simultaneously, Sam bound out of the jeep and caught his brother in a tight hug, a hug that was just as fiercely returned. "I thought you were dead," Sam choked out, that fear still chilling him, still claiming first prize in his emotions. Chin resting on Dean's shoulder, Sam clutched even tighter to his brother, to the living proof that his brother was there, was alive, hadn't been stolen away from him by the Japanese, and had not yet been ordered away from him by the military.

Returning the fierceness of his brother's hug, Dean clung to the connection between him and Sam, was profoundly grateful that God hadn't turned a deaf ear to his plea. With his emotions taking his voice an octave lower, Dean freely admitted, "Yeah, well, I lost some sleep thinking the same thing about you," unable to joke away his brother's concern for him or his own for Sam, not when he had lived for days with the fear that his brother had not survived the attack, was lost to him forever.

With relief and happiness raining down on him, it took Dean a few minutes to force himself to ease up his embrace, to start to withdraw from Sam's arms. He was surprised when his brother's arms tightened around him at his movement instead of loosening, that his brother was clinging to him instead of letting him go. It made Dean doubt his early belief, made him think that Sam might have meant what he had written, that he really did want his big brother in his life. '_You can't leave me, not when we just found each other again.' 'I don't want to walk away again, for us to continue to act like strangers_.'

"I'm right here, Sammy. I'm alright," Dean gently promised, letting his hand come up to rest on the back of his brother's head as his other hand pressed against his brother's spine, told his brother that he was there, was real, was as strong as he counted on him to be. He felt Sam nod against his shoulder, felt his brother's exhale of shaking breath.

Bowing to Dean's desire, Sam pulled back from his brother, allowed some space between them. But he couldn't relinquish their physical contact, instead he slid his hands from his brother's back to his forearms, clutched at the crisp uniform under his fingers. His eyes stayed locked on his brother's face, found that Dean's were just as intently fixed on him, both of them searching for injuries, for wounds, for proof that their brother was unhurt.

"You're not hurt?" Dean pointedly asked, his eyes scanning his brother for injuries, his hands now gently bracketing Sam's neck. After four days of fearing the worst, Dean needed more reassurances than a breathing Sam in front of him. Had to make sure that his brother was not marked physically by the hell that had nearly decimated the fleet, had ransacked the base, had, in one fell swoop of Zeroes, torn their lives apart as brutally as a torpedo had the USS Arizona.

Already shaking his head, Sam denied, "No. What about you?" Knowing his brother's proclivity to down play his own injuries, he cut in before Dean could speak. "And don't tell me you weren't in any danger, Dean. You already confessed to having to crash land your plane when you ran out of gas."

"I never said I crashed _anything_," Dean brazenly denied, a smug smile turning up his lips, removing his hold on his brother now that his fears were assuaged. "I glided that baby in like it was a feather. It was a beautiful sight, I tell you."

"Yeah, I bet," Sam laughingly scoffed, stiff fingers releasing their death grip on his brother's uniform and the muscle underneath. "I've seen some of your stellar landings, Dean. We were picking up parts of one of your planes over a quarter mile radius."

"Better than anyone else could have done," Dean cockily shot back. Throwing a look over his shoulder, gauging the time he had left by the progress of his squadron boarding the plane, he grimaced, despising the inevitable separation from Sam. Turning his full attention back to his brother, Dean didn't want to waste a second he and Sam had together, wanted it to count for something, to be enough to carry them through for however long the war took. But Dean's big brother instincts wouldn't allow him to act selfishly, not when it would hurt Sam.

So, knowing that his little brother had a task to accomplish, had most likely bartered and bribed his way into the duty of debriefing him, Dean, putting aside his need to talk about Dad or their two years apart or about how he had missed his brother, broached the topic with "So, you volunteered to come out here and take my report." Because, though he played fast and loose with his own career, it didn't mean he had not and would not continue to do everything in his power to make sure his brother's naval career was on the fast track to success, that Sam had a future, didn't lose the fragile notion of hope. A notion that the world had stolen from Dean so long ago he barely remembered how it felt, only knew that it was something to be treasured, guarded, worthy to be gifted to his brother.

Instead of seeing Sam's features shift into his Intelligence officer mode, Dean watched as a blush flared on his brother's cheeks. He stiffened when Sam ducked his head, hid from him a moment before raising his eyes to his, a look in the blue depths Dean didn't know how to interpret.

Hesitantly, Sam confessed, "Actually, I lied. I told the guards at the airfield entrance that I needed to get a firsthand report from you so they would let me through." To Sam's relief, reprimand didn't lurch into his brother's expression but instead he saw pride spark in Dean's eyes.

"You?! Lying?!" Dean taunted, unable to contain his smile, heart swelling at the extremes his brother had gone to just to see him. "You better watch it, Sammy. They might take away your boy scout badge for that."

"Well, I think my hotwiring the jeep takes the cake," Sam admitted with a mischievous smile, enjoying the pride in his brother's eyes, relishing for once that his family wasn't so normal, that an act of thievery was an accomplishment, not a fault.

However, at the new confession, Dean stilled. "You didn't?" his eyes skirting around Sam to see the liberated jeep.

"Yeah, well…You're the one that taught me how to hotwire cars," Sam returned warily, sensing the change in his brother's reaction at his newest confessed crime.

"Yeah, from stupid country bullies, not officers, Sam. If you get caught, you'll end up in the brig, your career could be over," Dean worriedly voiced, racking his brain for a way to take the blame for the stolen vehicle instead of Sam, for some way to protect his brother like he had done all of his life.

"I'm a Winchester. I'll talk my way out of it," Sam nonchalantly refuted his brother's worry with a shrug, the recriminations of a borrowed jeep the last thing on his mind with a war underway and his brother moments away from leaving for combat.

Dean smirked at his brother's boast, "Yeah, with that innocent face of yours they will never believe that you're a bad boy at heart," causing a blush to creep up on Sam's cheeks.

But Dean's smirk soon faded, was replaced by a forlornness that dulled his eyes as a bittersweet revelation slowly formed in his head: He couldn't protect Sam anymore. He was _leaving_ Sam, in more permanent, untouchable ways than Sam had left him. Even during their two years of disassociation, Dean had always known that, had Sam needed him, he could have reached his brother's side in a day, whether he did it AWOL or not was up for grabs. But now….he was about to get on a plane, go who knows where so he could climb into a fighter plane and challenge their newly found enemy to an aerial duel of death each and every day.

In his head, he knew what that meant, had to mean, that Sam was no longer his _responsibility_, was no longer the one person on earth that he had sworn to protect. No, in the new world that the Japanese attack had thrust him into, he had a responsibility to protect his _wingman_, his _squadron_. His duty, his loyalty had to shift, had to now be solely to his squadron, to his men, to his country. Each of them were counting on him to save them, to be willing to devote as much of himself to their protection as he had to his little brother's.

It was a burden Dean didn't flinch from even as he knew he couldn't fully undertake. Because in his heart, no matter how old his brother got, how many medals he tacked onto his uniform, Sam would _always_ be his little brother, would remain his _responsibility_, was his to protect. It was cruel irony that now, with the greatest dangers upon them, upon Sam, when Sam needed his protection the most, Dean could no longer fill that role, no longer had the power or the position to do that duty. It left Dean divided, torn apart, unwilling to leave but unable to stay.

Reading the turmoil in his brother's eyes, Sam tilted his head and gently entreated, "Dean, what is it? What's wrong?"

Shaking his head, Dean looked away, kept his focus on the heat shimmering off the tarmac, couldn't face the compassion, the concern in Sam's eyes right then. "Nothing. Things are just.." turning back to Sam he smirked, but his eyes were even sadder, "messed up, you know?"

Sam's constricted throat barely allowed him to croak out a "Yeah, I know." Messed up was a vast understatement to the turn of events from a few days ago, from when they had unexpectedly met on the base, when he had stockpiled hope that he could make amends with Dean.

Seeing the fear, the sadness in his little brother's face, hearing it in his voice, Dean did what he was born to do: he took care of Sammy. Pulling on a smirk, Dean joked, "I actually thought our lives couldn't get more strange…not unless our family became a traveling circus." Rewarded with a snort of laughter from Sam, Dean continued, "Yeah, I could be the knife thrower, Dad could be the lion tamer and you could be the bearded lady."

"Funny, Dean, real funny," Sam countered affection in his tone and in the look he leveled at Dean, a light in his eyes now, a lifting of the weight that had seemed ready to crush him, to crush them both a moment before.

"I know, I know, that only thing stopping us is you wouldn't be able to handle looking at a clown without crying," Dean taunted, a happiness settling over him at the chance again to tease Sam, to be Sam's annoying big brother.

"Could too," Sam protested. "I was four Dean, the clown scared me. Not like you were any help, telling me it was like the scarecrow in our fields, come to life, to kill me."

"I didn't say "kill you"," Dean protested before a mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes. "I said he would "eat you."

"Yeah, cause that's so much better," Sam laughed.

"Oh come on, I said I would….." Dean broke off and the smile slid from his face as the memory sharpened in his mind.

As if realizing at the same time what Dean had remembered, Sam quietly finished his brother's recollection, "You said that you would protect me…that you won't let him eat me." His eyes fully meeting Dean's, he knew what lay ahead for them, what was pulling the foundation out from under them both. No matter what, they had always known that they could count on each other. There had never been any doubt in Sam's mind that it would have taken but one letter, one call to his brother and Dean would have come to him, would have done what he had done his whole life: protected his little brother.

"And you did, you always protected me, Dean," Sam declared breathlessly, his love for his brother brimming in his eyes.

Emotions tripping him up, Dean didn't know what to say, wanted to tell Sam that he always would protect him even as he knew he _couldn't_, not now, not when he was _leaving_. As luck would have it, the sputtering of the plane's engine behind him saved him from making a reply, from offering up a promise he could no longer keep. Reading the instant panic that ignited in his baby brother's eyes at their imminent separation, Dean stepped closer to Sam, found Sam making the same move, their new positions leaving them so close that they almost touched.

"Dean…" Sam said tremulously, fighting the rising dread in his gut, eyes filling.

"You take care of yourself, Sammy. That's an order," Dean demanded, raising his voice to ensure it carried to his brother, his eyes unwaveringly locked on Sam, needing to convey to his little brother that insubordination to this particular order would be unacceptable.

Instead of the usual resentment flaring in him at his brother's habit of barking orders at him, Sam was overwhelmed by the level of love that was running under the gruff order. Knew that it was his brother's love and worry for him that was triggering the order, had maybe triggered a hundred of his brother's and even his father's orders in the past. It was a revelation that made Sam's throat close up tighter, allowed him only to nod his head in agreement.

Reading the shifting emotions in his brother's eyes, Dean knew Sam was going to bow to his order even before his brother's head bobbed. Feeling a weight lift in his chest at his brother's silent promise, Dean thought, with that reassurance from his brother, he just might find sleep sometime in the future, might have a chance, even if it was a slim one, of keeping his worry for his brother at bay.

Needing the same promise, the same pledge from Dean that he had offered up, Sam, finding his voice, made his own demand. "You take care of yourself too, Dean," his eyes boring into his brother's green ones, as determined as Dean had been to not relent until he had what he wanted, needed from his stubborn brother.

Turning around, needing to escape from Sam's desperate, steely look for a moment, Dean noted that the rest of the men of his squadron were aboard, knew that his time was up, that his and Sam's time was up. Gearing himself to walk away, to let Sam go, Dean stood there a moment, frozen, his back to his brother. When his brother's hand latched onto his shoulder, his brother's long fingers snagged desperately at the fabric, at the muscle underneath, Dean relished the contact, his brother's need for him even as he tried hard to deny his own needs, his own fear and sadness.

Facing Sam again, Dean hoped that his face didn't convey his emotions. He prayed that he emanated the fearless strength that Sam expected of him, needed from him, that he seamlessly wore the brave façade that his father had cultivated in him.

Sacred to death at the prospect of Dean leaving without promising to return to him, Sam declared, "You're already a hero, Dean. You have nothing to prove to anyone. All Dad and I need from you is for you to protect _yourself_, for you to come home to us," his words emotional charged, desperate to get his message through to his reckless, self sacrificing brother. Knew, without a doubt, that for once his thoughts were in full agreement with his father's. Out of all the things Sam condemned his father for, not loving Dean, not being proud of Dean was never one of them.

"Winchester!" came across the tarmac, a decibel above the plane's engine. But neither brother spared the CO standing expectantly by the plane's door a glance, instead their eyes stayed locked on one another.

"Last boarding call," Dean joked, a smirk firmly in place but his eyes were dark with sorrow. He felt Sam's grip on his shoulder tighten even as his brother nodded his head in acquiescence to the hands of fate. A few seconds later, Sam's fingers slowly forfeited their tenacious hold on Dean. Freed, Dean gave his brother one last look and turned away, scooped his bag off the ground and onto his shoulder and started to walk toward the waiting plane.

"Dean!" Sam called, running to his brother. When Dean stopped to face him, Sam dug his hand into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around the one possession that he had sworn never to part with. With a trembling outstretched hand, he offered the pocketknife to Dean, the pocketknife that his brother had given to him when they were just boys, looking for adventure on their farm. "I want it back when we both get home."

Knowing the promise that Sam was asking him to make, Dean didn't reach for the pocketknife, instead he swung his look up from the knife to his brother's pleading expression. "Sam…" he entreated, his voice rough with emotion, unwilling to make a promise he couldn't keep, not to Sam, never to Sam.

"Please, Dean," Sam whispered, knowing precisely what he was asking of his big brother, what weight he was placing on his brother's shoulders. But he had no mercy in this, not when it meant the difference between Dean coming back to him or being gone forever. "Please."

Unable to bear the need pouring from Sam, Dean reached for the knife, stilled when Sam's hand coiled tightly around his own. Shinning eyes fixed on Sam, Dean, for a brief moment, returned the grip, told Sam in his own way that he was making that oath, was offering up the promise Sam so blatantly wanted, needed from him. Gripping the knife tightly, Dean withdrew his hand, freed himself of his brother's hold. Then he gave Sam's chest a gentle, affectionate pat with his hand before he spun on his heels and ran for the plane.

Watching his brother board the plane, Sam had never felt so scared, so alone in his entire life. Swallowing to keep his emotions in check, he found himself valiantly praying, '_God, please take care of my brother_. _Keep him safe, return him to me,'_ even as he morbidly wondered if he would ever see his brother again.

When the plane taxied down the runway and climbed into the sky, Sam tracked it as it flew away from him, as it took his brother from him, as he was left standing alone on the airstrip in the middle of a remarkably beautiful day, even among Hawaiian standards. His voice trembled when he spoke aloud, "Out of all the promises you've made to me, you've never broken a single one, Dean. Please don't break this one. Not this one, Dean. Not. This. One," uncaring that a tear slipped down his cheek and his voice broke.

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TBC

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Ah, I know terribly angsty and sappy. I just couldn't help myself…ok I could have but I chose not to.

One more chapter to go!

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.


	4. Chapter 4

Pearl Harbor 1941

Pearl Harbor 1941

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Ok, this is NOT the final chapter. How many times do I write a story and end up telling you guys that?! I really shouldn't try anymore to even guess how long winded I'll be to wrap up a story! But I hate being blinded sided with a "The end" so I've always tried to give a fair warning of impending finale…Hope you forgive me for being wordy in telling this tale and for this chapter certainly not getting where I wanted it to. But honestly I'm working on the rest of the story, it's just been hard to hit the right chords.

So in the hopes that you all believe that something's better than nothing….

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_September 1945_

After hours of activity, of voices, of emotions, the Kansas airport was eerily quiet now, still, felt devoid of hope. Stiffly shifting in his seat, Sam clutched his naval hat tighter in his hands, his tired eyes not leaving the door to the arriving flights. Knew, hoped, prayed that the next person he saw coming through the archway would be his brother…just as he had hoped all day.

At the "Sir," he looked up to find a stewardess standing beside him, a sympathetic look on her pretty features. "There are no more flights scheduled in for another three hours. Are you sure you had the flight information correct? Maybe your friend was scheduled on another flight."

"Brother," Sam quietly corrected, his voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat and met her gaze with more conviction. "I'm waiting for my brother."

The woman's smile was gentle, "Is he a soldier like you?"

"Yeah," Sam choked out, a forced smile on his face. '_But not like me, better than me_, _braver than me_.'

Sensing the handsome naval officer's unease, the stewardess nodded her head, didn't discourage his fragile hope. In the past month she had seen many families waiting for the return of their soldier sons and husbands and fathers, witnessed their joy, looked away from their despair when they weren't greeted with their loved one but instead with a message that told them that their wait had been in vain, that the ones they loved were never coming home, were never going to return to them. "Ok, well, how about if I bring you a cup of coffee from our lunch room. Cream and sugar?"

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said, wondering at the kindness, felt sick at the thought that it was generated out of pity, out of knowing something he didn't, some truth he wouldn't accept. His leg jumping nervously under his hand, he scowled at the empty archway, could feel the disappointment, the fear building in him from the long hours of waiting. At dawn, when he had deplaned, anticipation had coursed through him and he had been unable to help the smile, knew happiness was prominently written on his features, was evident in the buoyancy of his walk. Claiming a chair in the airport, he had been certain that he had beaten his brother's flight in, anticipated the shocked surprise on his brother's face when he walked through that archway and saw him sitting there, waiting for him.

But now Sam's anticipation had turned to dread, had morphed into the same panic he had felt nearly four years ago at Pearl, left him wondering if his brother was lost to him. Made him distrust the good news that he had heard from the Washington Intelligence office a week ago, that his brother's squadron was being shipped State-side, that his brother would be on a flight home to Kansas, to the very airport he sat in. Would arrive _today_. _Now._ **Hours ago.**

Sam had thought he had planned it so well. He had finally accepted his discharge papers that had been waiting for him for four months, had picked the earliest flight in that he could, wanted to beat Dean there, to be sitting there, smugly, waiting. The whole flight, the simple words of "welcome home, Dean" had rambled away in his head as he tried to make sure that he didn't choke up on the words, said them just right, not too emotional and yet not stilted, didn't want to hide the fact that he had waited four years …nearly six to welcome Dean home, to welcome his brother back into his life.

Now that wait had gone on longer than he could stand. After years of waiting, of praying that his brother was safe, that they would have the chance to be brothers again, it was ironic that a few hours of waiting was unnerving him, was allowing his doubts to crumble his barriers, was shattering him from the inside out.

Surging from the chair, he crossed over to the public telephone. His hands trembled as he dug coins out of pocket and slid the change into the phone. He barely recognized his own voice when he asked the operator to connect him to his contact at the Washington, DC Intelligence office. The wait until the other man's voice came on the phone line added to the dread settling in his chest. He greeted the man gruffly even as he knew it was a sad return for his friend's loyalty, for the risks his friend had taken time and again over the past four years to skim through the reports that came through his office, looking for any information on D. Winchester or squadron 210, giving Sam the barest thread of connection to his brother.

"David, it's Sam Winchester. Are you sure that my brother's squadron was due Stateside two days ago, that their discharge papers were for today?" he demanded, instilling frustration into his voice to mask his fear, uncertain if the façade was for his fellow Intelligence agent or for himself.

"Sam…"

At his friend's tone, Sam's heart slammed to a halt and his breath lodged in his throat. There was sorrow and pity and apology in David's voice, telling Sam a million things he never wanted to hear.

"No," Sam growled out, clinging to anger, to denial, to anything that would forestall his friend's next words, that would not shatter his hope. "Don't," he snarled, the phone trembling badly in his hand. He wanted desperately to hang up, to not hear any more, to resume his seat, his wait, because he knew Dean was coming home, was coming back to him. Damn it, Dean had promised him that he would come home, had taken the pocketknife and all that went with it: his little brother's love, his hope, his faith…the only future Sam could foresee for himself. "He's fine," but Sam's voice cracked on the word 'fine', on Dean's favorite word to describe himself when he decidedly was anything but fine.

David hurriedly latched onto that reply, onto Sam's hope, let optimism reign in his tone of voice, "Yeah, well he might be, Sam."

But at his friend's reply, Sam bowed his head forward and tightly clamped his eyes shut. Leaning his hand against the wall to keep himself upright, he hoarsely choked out, "Just tell me."

A sigh over the phone line was heard. "I came across an old report..from nearly two months ago. Don't know where it got lost. You know the supply lines have been worse since the war's been over. Just last week my commander was asking for a ration of…"

Sam's broken "Please," cut off the other man's rambling stall like a tripwire, took him out at the knees, stopped him in his tracks.

"The squadron reported heavy casualties," David said, regret and truth equally evident. "Nearly three fourths of their number."

At the statement, Sam's bowed head came forward to rest against the telephone and his fingers tightly gripped the phone's handset. "My brother…" he barely managed to get the words out through his constricted throat, wondered if he would have to ask again, if the two words that had cost him his soul to say had even made it through the phone lines.

"They didn't disclose any names, Sam. Just numbers, just statistics," David's voice was hard, bitter. He knew the importance of his job but he had never been able to dispel his hatred at the cold-heartedness of it. "I made a few phone calls this morning when I saw the report, trying to get an update, to track down your brother but…I got put on a high priority task. I…I'm sorry I can't…maybe I can assign someone else to….in a couple of days…."

'_Statistics'_ bitterly echoed in Sam's head, his brother's fate had become a statistic, a tally of losses and victories, of sacrifices for the greater good. Sam hated, that for too long, he and his father had done the same, had thought of Dean as a number, as just another vote needed to sway the outcome of their many arguments, to tip the scales for their personal gain. For himself, Sam knew that he had angrily heaped his brother in with the list of people bossing him around, tying him to the life he hated, just another person who didn't care what he wanted, what he _deserved_. For their father, Dean had too often been counted as just another farm hand, another resource to get the crops in, another mouth to feed.

Shame poured over Sam at the comparison, at his blindness, at his father's. He could see, for the first time, the sacrifices that his brother had made: To shelter his little brother from the true extent of their harsh lifestyle, to nurture his idealisms, his dreams instead of crushing them, to keep food on the table. Recognized with adult clarity, that when the farm's demise had become seemingly eminent, when the whims of the weather had been cruel and the mercy of the banker had been in short supply, that it had been just one man who bore the weight of holding back that tide. That _Dean_ had borne that weight, that responsibility. Alone. Because, for all their father's resolve, for all of John Winchester's strength and pride, he had never understood that to win some battles you had to be willing to be weak, to let pride take a backseat, to put everyone you loved before yourself, before your needs, before your own goals and dreams. Dean had done that, every day of his life, had beat the odds, not out of pride but out of love, out of the encompassing desire to keep his family together, whole, safe.

'_But who keeps you safe, Dean? Who was taking care of __you__?! Certainly not me…and not Dad_.' Sam didn't know his choked sob was audible, not until David spoke again.

"Sam, are you alright?"

Though concern was evident in the achingly familiar words, the voice was wrong, was so very _wrong_. This voice could not be compared with the voice that had always asked him that question, asked him no matter how old he got or how undeserving of the offered compassion he was. No, this voice was not low enough, had not the power to reach into his core, to connect with him the way the other voice could, the way Dean's voice always did.

'_Sam are you alright_?' The answer was a resounding, '_No!' _and Samwould have let that confession slip free of his clenched jaw, had the voice been right, had it been his brother on the other end of the phone line, had his brother's fate not been hanging in the balance, threatening to hopelessly topple the scales of his life.

Pulling back from his slouch against the phone, standing up, Sam nodded, though David couldn't see that lie. But Sam didn't speak, honestly didn't know what to say, couldn't offer gratitude, not for the news, not for the dark specter his friend's words had cast over his hope. Didn't want to say that he would call again if Dean didn't show up, if he needed to know his brother's fate. Couldn't stomach the idea of _needing_ to uncover the truth of how his brother had been taken from him.

Finally he managed to lowly offer his honest gratitude to his friend. "You've been a good friend, David. Good luck." Then, before his friend could make a return, could utter some forced speech of hope or offer up a similar wish for his future, Sam quickly hung up the phone, severed the connection, wishing he could as easily stop their conversation from replaying in his head.

'_Causalities…three fourths of their number …no names …statistics …statistics …statistics._'

Turning to leave the phone booth, Sam stumbled. Reaching out to brace his hands against the frame of the phone booth, his head dropped and a gasp of breath broke free from his tight chest. Dean couldn't be gone, not Dean. Dean was bigger than life, was invincible, was _Dean_. So many times Sam had watched his brother push through his fatigue to get the crops in when time was against them, when nature itself was pitted against them. Had seen Dean take on three hulking guys and come out the victor, though bloody and bruised. Remembered being shaken the one time Dean had been seriously hurt, seeing his big brother vulnerable, weak, stuck in bed, his broken ribs wrapped, his face so very pale. But even then it had been Dean himself that had chased his little brother's fears away, assured him that he was fine, would be up and around in a few days, and he was, against old Doc Paterson's orders but with a "That's my boy," look from their father.

No, Dean was a fighter, a _survivor_. Had survived their mother's death, had survived their father's sometimes harsh parenting skills, had survived a hundred of his reckless stunts, a thousand days under a blistering sun, the unmerciful torque of a few tornadoes and four years of war. He would not surrender, would not _go_, not when he knew his little brother needed him.

'_But does he know that?! How would he know that?! By the two years you refused to speak to him… told yourself not to even __think__ about him or Dad. By the endearing words you said to him when you told him you were transferring to Intelligence: 'I'm not like you! I'm not going to dedicate my life to trying to earn Dad's approval…an approval that's never going to come. I have my own plans for my life, Dean.' _

Clamping his eyes shut tighter and bowing his head further, Sam cursed his pride, railed at his inability to see then what he knew now. It didn't matter _why_ his brother had joined the Navy, had chosen to be a pilot. What matter to Dean, what should matter to _him_ was that Dean was dedicated to it, did it better than the rest, that for his brother, it was all about saving lives, doing some good in the world, being _useful_. His brother was everything he envisioned a hero to be, had been his hero for most of his life. It should have made him proud, that Dean was a hero to others, had swooped in like a bird of prey and protected the innocent, sent evil packing. '_Dean would give his life to save others…_' Sam choked down a larger sob at the revelation, at the truth he had always known but had never wanted to face. His brother was selfless, had never learned to put himself before others, had never found enough worth in himself to rank his survival above someone else's.

'_I never shattered that notion, never told him to care about himself above me, above Dad, above the survival of the farm_.' Sam knew that on that airfield in Pearl…the last time he had seen Dean, he had tried to make Dean see how much he loved him, how much he valued _him_, _needed him_, not as a protector, not as someone who would take his side in his arguments with their father, but as a _brother_…as a best friend. But his words had been tempered by a fear of rejection, of his hatred at being vulnerable, at showing need, had barely skimmed the surface of the raging terror and worry and love that had been swirling in him like the worst of the twisters they had faced. And though he had tried to rectify that with the letters he wrote to Dean over the last four years, he never knew if any of them reached his brother…had never gotten any letters back from Dean.

Wrestling his emotions down into the box that he hid in his soul, Sam drew in a steadying breath, abandoned his defeated pose and walked out of the phone booth, headed back to his chair. Paying no attention to the coffee cup wafting fresh roasted beans on the chair beside his, he sank down onto the plastic chair. But he couldn't force himself to raise his eyes, to look again at that archway, to look for his brother…who may not be coming, who may be dead. Might have died two months ago.

"No," he choked out aloud, head bowed, fingers curled around the back of his neck. It couldn't end like this, not when he needed Dean, not when he wanted to see his brother more than he wanted to go home, even more than he wanted to see his father. No, it just couldn't end like this, not when he had waited so long, had tried to be patient, to see things logically, to view things through military objectives, to take comfort in his loyalty, in Dean's loyalty to the cause. His wait couldn't be for nothing, to only sit here, hoping for his brother to return …to be left waiting forever. To face that his wait today, his years of waiting to see his brother again had been in vain, had been a heartless trick of fate, allowing him to cling to hope, to slip into sleep each night believing that the war would be over. Envisioning he and Dean back on their farm, sitting on their porch swing, teasing each other over heroic exploits or who got home first from the war or how long it would take until their father to lose his temper with them, send them off to do the worst chore he could think of. That was how this hellish war ended, there, laughing with his brother, remembering what peace felt like, not global peace but peace in his soul. Of belonging again, to someplace, with someone, of not being alone even in a ship full of service men. In ended _there_, not in the middle of a quiet deserted airport. No, the war ended with them _together_, not him _alone._

Raising his head, looking to the empty arrivals archway, Sam vowed, "I'll wait," his voice gravely and wavering but his conviction strong. "I waited nearly four years to see you, I can wait for as long as it takes in this airport. I'm not going home without you, Dean." '_I can't'_ but those words he couldn't speak, honestly didn't know when _home_ had stopped meaning Kansas, their farm, his father. Just knew in the deepest part of him that home meant _Dean_, meant seeing his brother again, being in his brother's presence, finishing his brother's sentences, even working on their farm at his brother's side. Knew that if Dean was truly gone, then a part of him was irrevocably lost, the part of him that had a home, that knew what it felt like to know safety, security, love.

No, he was going to sit there and wait for his brother because Dean was coming back to him. Looking down to his wrist at the silver bracelet that lay against his skin, Sam ran his fingers over the engraved letters, over the DEAN with the restored N. Dean would be back, he had a pocketknife to return, a bracelet to retrieve and a little brother who needed him.

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For as much as Sam had hated the quiet, the seemingly hopelessness that permeated the airport, the din of voices that broke the silence two hours later was far worse. When the first family arrived, it had felt like a violation to his privacy. Taking the seats a few down from his own, they had taken up the vigil he had all day, their eyes on the arrivals' archway. But where fear rested in him, there was hope in their voices, in all of the voices that had begun echoing around the airport walls. The sheer number of people again crowded into the airport seating area almost fooled him into thinking it was the middle of the day instead of the dead of night. Their happy anticipation choking him, mercilessly twisting the knife seemingly buried in his heart.

Sam didn't want any spectators, not to his joy or to his despair. Didn't want to share his brother with anyone, didn't want anyone blocking his view of Dean entering the airport, or slow down his headlong charge to get to his brother. Nor did he want anyone there to see him breakdown, to watch his destruction. Didn't want his pain to be on display like some movie reel clip on the war efforts where loss was sanitized, glorified, _betrayed_.

A flash of quiet fell over the gathered crowd when the flight's arrival was announced over the PA system. Then the room was filled with a level of hope and happiness and relief that nearly compressed Sam, buffeted his own swaying emotions. Standing up, he didn't move closer, his height allowing him to clearly see the archway through the anxious crowd.

At the first sight of a uniform clad man walking through the archway, Sam's breath caught …and left him just as soon. It wasn't Dean. No, Dean was not the first man striding through the archway, returning from war, coming home. But Sam valiantly clung to hope…until the archway was unforgivingly empty.

His legs threatening to give out on him, Sam collapsed back into the seat, oblivious to the laughter, the joyous tears, of the reunions taking place all around him. For him there was only despair and anger and fear…and loss. Dean was not there, had not returned to him, had not come home. And Sam found he didn't know how to leave or how to stay, didn't know how to give up on his brother anymore than he knew how to cling to hope, hope that was slipping through his hands like the last grains of wheat. Dropping his eyes from the archway, Sam sat there immobile, shredded, lost.

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TBC..

Thanks so much for reading this story!! And I thank everyone who's dropped me those wonderful encouraging reviews that have the power to keep me writing. I'm crossing my fingers that some of you will stick with this story until it's finished.

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.


	5. Chapter 5

Pearl Harbor 1941

Pearl Harbor 1941

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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He was going home. It was a cause for celebration, was a victory in its own right, was what he had wanted for years. It was a betrayal that he wasn't happy, wasn't relieved at the prospect, wasn't laughing and excited like the people around him had been. Instead, fear and dread and sorrow overshadowed everything else, made him want to abandon the notion of ever going home again.

But Dean knew running away was a stupid thing to consider. After so many years of wanting something, it was cowardly to walk away at the precipice of getting it, to let it go. To choose to live with part of himself missing rather than suffer the disappointment of the ideal of _home_ not measuring up, of not being how he remembered it, of _him_ not being the man he once thought himself to be, dreamed that he would one day be, of being the man that his father expected him to be.

No, he would go home, would once again come to measure his own self-worth by the look that his father bestowed on him, would become a son again, a farm hand, would let the mantle of soldier fall away, would shuck off the weight of saving the free world. Would trade it for the burden of saving the part of the world that was his: his family, his farm, the life he knew. But even as he thought of those things he held dear, Dean wondered if any of them were still his to reclaim.

Sam was gone, was probably already stationed in the Intelligence division in Washington DC. And his father? The farm? The pit of foreboding in his stomach warned him that his years away might have proven to his father that he had no use for him, could manage the farm just as skillfully without him, could even live happily without this particular son being returned to him. That notion left Dean wondering how many times in the past years his father had come to realize that he had told the wrong son to stay gone. Dean had not the heart to guess how many times in the future that thought would fly through his father's head. Because, for all the raging emotions in his father's 'stay gone' to Sam, there was little found in his goodbye words of 'Stay safe' to his eldest son. The words said as if they were an afterthought, a requirement a father was forced to make, regardless if no heart felt desire was bound to the sentiment.

His father had missed _Sam_, Dean didn't doubt that. But whether his father had missed _him, _missed himfor more than the work load he carried on the farm, Dean didn't know that answer, wasn't sure if he could live with that answer. After all he had been through, the danger, the sorrow, the fear, the euphoria and guilt of surviving when others did not, Dean knew it was so pathetic that his father's opinion of him still mattered, still outshone everything else he had ever wanted, had ever done, that his father's love was something he valued almost above everything else.

'_But_ _not everything_,' he corrected himself, knew that there was something else he valued, someone else he valued even more than he ever would his father: Sam. Sam, who had always been his responsibility. Sam who, when they were kids, had so many times looked at him with open admiration. Sam, who had been there, had _found_ a way to be there when he was leaving Pearl, about to get into the thick of fighting, when he needed more of a send off than 'stay safe', needed that hug, that connection, needed his brother more than he had ever thought he would ever allow himself to need anyone else since his mother had died.

Sam had given him that, had filled that need without conditions, had not held back, had let them be brothers again, for what could have been the last time. And them both surviving the war, Dean knew it didn't mean that their last parting hadn't been in Pearl four years ago, that their brotherhood hadn't shone its brightest right before it was snuffed out. Snuffed out by his decision to not write Sam back or by the future Sam had always wanted for himself, that Dean, in his heart, wanted for his brother, knew Sam deserved. Even if it was a future that didn't involve his father, that was without him.

For Dean, all of that made it worse, made the idea of heading home _alone _feel like a defeat instead of a victory_. _Left him wondering if he would ever see Sam again, made him dread stepping onto the long lane of their farm_, _of managing the onslaught of memories too sharp, too painful. Memories that would downgrade the vivid dreams he had had over the years into black and white. Memories of shared laughter, of teaching Sam to drive the tractor and fly a kite, of Sam sneaking out to help him complete a chore of punishment, of his brother tracking him down in the middle of the day to give him a sandwich when he worked through lunch. Of just the two of them, sitting on the porch swing, watching the stars overhead and talking about girls and sports and the radio they wanted their Dad to buy in town. When just being together was enough to make things alright.

Brought back to his present surroundings, Dean turned up the smile he was leveling at the pretty stewardess, pushed those memories away, tried to bury them with as much reverence as he had so many of his friends over the years. Treasured but still lost, cherished even as it had the power to bring him unbearably pain. Tuning in again to the conversation, he made a reply to the stewardess' question. "I don't need anyone waiting to welcome me home, not when I have you," he deflected with a brash smile, his internal battle to keep his emotions at bay, to conceal his pain well hidden.

It was cold calculation that had him still on the plane after the other passengers had already deplaned. Because, though he could fool a lot of people with the masks he wore, he knew his limitations, knew that even his fortification could not withstand walking through a sea of happy reunions. There were worse fates than being alone…like having to see what could have been. A father telling his son that he was proud of him, was glad to have him home, of seeing a mother gather her son into her arms like she would never let him go again, like she would never ever leave him alone in the world.

Having lost the train of the conversation, Dean turned back to the stewardess, saw that the other stewardess had joined them. "What?" he asked, as if they were the reason he was still on the plane, that they weren't a distraction, that this wasn't part of his internal defenses.

"I said I hope you have a ride home," the second stewardess repeated, concern in her blue eyes that Dean didn't welcome, feeling too undeserving of it, knew it tread too close to pity. "You look paler than when you got on the plane tonight. I can call someone to drive you home since you can't walk…."

"I'm fine," Dean snapped but as he watched the two women flinch at his tone, he pushed a sad, apologetic smile onto his face. "I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to help but I'm Ok." He could see that they didn't believe him but he was thankful that instead of pushing the point, they allowed him to steer the conversation back to his off duty antics overseas.

Though he remained outwardly jovial, he began to curse himself for not stalling his return home until he was at 100. Until he could stand in front of his father on his own two feet, until the cuts on his face had healed, until he could at least appear like he had weathered the war with honor and bravery, that the flying skill his father had passed onto him had kept him safe, had made him impervious to harm, to defeat. Until he at least _looked_ the part of the war hero that his father expected him to be.

But as one of the plane's pilots approached their threesome, Dean knew his time was up. He had to get off the plane, had to go home, had to see if he belonged there anymore, if he belonged anywhere anymore. Resigned that there was no turning back, he nodded at the pilot's 'Time to deplane, son,', grabbed his crutches and got to his feet. Using the agility he still had in spades, even with a wounded left leg, he maneuvered down the aisle of the plane and down the stairs onto the tarmac where a few lights held the darkness of the night at bay.

The stewardesses flanked him as he made his way toward the airport a few yards away, their conversations washing over him but not drawing his interest, not when he felt he was unraveling inside. Entering the airport, he passed under the arrivals archway and cursorily scanned the nearly deserted airport, the practice of taking in his surroundings too ingrained in him now to stop. Dispassionately, he dismissed the straggling passengers leaving with their families, ensuring that their reunion, their emotions didn't get a chance to make an assault on the walls he had erected. Then his eyes flickered to the lone man in uniform sitting in one of the plastic chair, bent forward, hands clasped behind his bowed head, defeat, disappointment wafting off of him like gasoline from a crashed Corsair.

Those emotions filtered through Dean's defenses easily, were something he knew about only too well. Knew about being hurt, about not getting what you wanted in life, needed. He had been taught that lesson the hard way years ago. Sometimes the people you loved let you down, left you high and dry, left you with only a deserted airport for a welcome home gift. Returned your love for pain, ten fold. It was one of the reasons he had not notified his father that he was coming home, why he never ended up sending any letters to Sam. He couldn't afford to open himself up to more hurt, not when sometimes he felt he was drowning in it already. Couldn't risk shattering the illusion of his family's love for him with something as harsh as the truth, not when his belief that he was loved in some capacity was the only thing giving him the strength to keep himself together, to fight the good fight, to survive.

Unable to look away from the lone soldier, Dean felt inexplicably drawn to him, was surprised to feel pain mirroring the stranger's pierce through his toughest shields like they were constructed of flimsy sheet metal. His breath catching, Dean stopped so quickly he nearly fell, almost lost his grip on his left crutch. It barely registered that the stewardess on his right had latched onto his arm to steady him.

The stranger, the soldier was achingly familiar, was _known_ to him, on a level so deep it was innate. Suddenly he knew that he would recognize the other man's presence blindfolded. Oblivious to the stewardess asking if he was alright, Dean could only stare at the dejected figure a few steps away, couldn't pull his eyes away from the heart stopping sight of his _brother_.

'_It can't be Sam_,' he quickly denied, once halted breath coming out quickly. '_Sam wouldn't be here. He's in Washington DC, carving out a military career in Intelligence, living his own life, a life wholly separate from me, from Dad_.' Wondering if he was suffering again from fever induced delirium, Dean shook his head, tried to think logically, to face the facts that Sam would not be there, would never again _choose_ to be in Kansas, choose to be only fifteen miles from home, from their father. That logic told him that there was no way that Sam would be there in that small poor excuse for an airport in the middle of the night. Seemingly waiting for him.

But for all his denials, Dean couldn't drown out what his heart was unfailingly telling him: That his brother was only a few steps away from him, that no matter how inconceivable it was, Sam was there, waiting for him. "Sammy?" he breathed, disbelief and joy mingled in his rough voice. At his soft call, the dark head snapped up as if he had shouted the name across the airport's small expansion. Dean couldn't misinterpret the look of unmitigated joy on his brother's face.

"Dean…" Sam called out, joy, relief and affection fused into his brother's name as he surged to his feet, began to quickly eat up the distance that separated him from his brother. Never remembering being as happy before as he was right then.

Watching his brother's hurried approach, Dean almost shook his head again to clear it, battled the fear that Sam wasn't real, that Sam would disappear, that his brother was not there, had never been there. To his relief Sam kept coming, didn't fade away, was getting closer. But he tensed as he saw Sam's wide smile wink out, saw a crease spring to his little brother's forehead. Dean felt his protective big brother instincts kick in when he saw fear and worry darken his brother's blue eyes.

As Sam bound toward Dean, as he really saw his brother, worry sliced through his joy. Coming to a stand before Dean and the two stewardesses, he was about to exchange his practiced 'welcome home' greeting for a frantic 'Dean are you alright?' but his brother's authoritative voice initiated its own greeting.

"Sam, what's wrong? Are you alright? Is Dad alright?" Dean urgently demanded, needing to wipe that hurt look off of Sam's face, to right whatever wrong had his little brother looking so upset.

"What?!" The questions caught Sam off guard for a moment, before he remembered this was Dean he was dealing with. Dean, who cared about others, about his little brother and their dad long before he would ever bother to care about himself. "No, I'm alright, Dad's alright," he offhandedly reassured, though he had yet to talk to his father and confirm the statement, because, right then, he wanted to focus on what mattered most to him: Dean.

His eyes flickering to the two women, Sam felt anger toward them, for them being there, for being spectators to his reunion with his brother, for being a barrier of sorts between him and Dean. "Ah, thanks for taking care of my brother," he coolly dismissed, his smile forced as his look swiveled from one stewardess to the other.

Both women gave a glance to Dean, as if he would protest their dismissal. But Dean didn't even register their presence anymore, was still taking in the sight of his little brother, alive and well and right there. Barely took notice when he found himself alone with Sam.

"Sam what…" Dean began, trying his best to quell the hope that was trying to grow in him. He couldn't afford to let Sam back within his walls, not if Sam was only going to leave again. Couldn't open himself up to that kind of disappointment, that kind of _hurt. _Hurtthat would cripple him, would taint the future he was determined to make his own, to accept, if not be happy in, a future separate from Sam.

Needing to cut off his brother's question, to forestall whatever emotional roadblock his brother was about to unleash, Sam said in a rush, "I knew when you were being discharged, that you would probably be on a flight today. So I grabbed the earliest arrival fight they had." Not taking the time to react to Dean's surprised look, Sam drew in a shaky intake of air, barely got his next words to carry the short distance to Dean. "But I didn't know about the recent casualties in your squadron until this evening. I never knew you were _hurt_, Dean," his voice cracking, his eyes not leaving Dean's green gaze, not needing to. The sight of his alive brother standing in that archway, supported by crutches, a dingy bandage wrapped around his left calf, small cuts on his too pale, too careworn face, a face that starkly showcased his brother's freckles and highlighted the bruises under Dean's green eyes was imprinted on his brain, forever. Was both a blessing and a source of pain, was infallible proof that his brother was alive, had returned to him and was an equal testament that Dean had very nearly been taken away from him, forever.

"I'm fine," Dean brazenly reassured, drawing on a cocky smirk as if it could fool his brother, could dull the pain that was etched in his eyes or whiten the bandage around his leg or make the crutches seem more an accessory than a necessity. When Sam looked as if he would make one of his little brother pleas for the truth, to not be treated like a kid that needed sheltered, Dean shifted the crutches more tightly under his arms to stand up straighter, but the movement sent a flare of pain through him.

His big brother's 'I'm fine' response was so _Dean_ that Sam had been torn between laughing and crying. Might have done one of them had Dean not shifted on his crutches, had Sam not seen the minuscule flare of pain in his brother's eyes, had not been reminded that his brother wasn't fine, was _lying_ to him. Hurt shafted through Sam that Dean would choose to lie to him, to try and coddle him like a boy after the hell they had both been through, that Dean thought he still had to shield him, couldn't just let him past his walls, couldn't trust him with his vulnerability. After worrying about Dean for so long, after waiting _years_ to even _see_ his brother, to know he was alive, having Dean throw up another wall between them, to find a way to shut him out even when they were both _right there_ was more than Sam could handle.

"Yeah, Dean, you look fine," Sam snorted with a sarcastic bitter laugh, unwilling to pretend that Dean wasn't hurt, to belittle his brother's pain. Refused to continue acting like he needed Dean to be invincible, like it was a requirement for big brothers.

Having geared himself up for his father's disapproval and disappointment, Dean was ambushed by Sam's seeming judgment. "I'm still alive when a lot of other guys aren't!" he defended, but his stomach sickly turned at the boast, at the fraudulent assumption that he _deserved_ to be there, to be alive, that it wasn't just a twist of fate that had kept him breathing, had kept him alive when death had come for so many around him.

Standing straighter, stepping closer to his brother, eyes unflinchingly holding Dean's, Sam accused, "That's not your fault, is it?" his voice hard, daring Dean to refute his words. He stood there a moment, watched confusion crease his brother's forehead before he clarified. "Flying extra missions, signing up for raids with long odds of success or survival, you did everything you could to put yourself in harm's way."

"Harm's way?!" Dean incredulously repeated, his voice raising. "Sam we are at war..were at war! And what, were you spying on me?"

"Had to, it's not like you wrote me any letters," Sam returned, voice rising to match Dean's. Though he was surprised that the accusation had slipped free, he wasn't that his next words came out sounding so frantic, laid his fears bare. "Dean, I didn't even know if you were alive!"

"Write you letters.." Dean repeated with quiet disbelief as he gave a small smile that had nothing to do with mirth and everything to do with pain. "Yeah. Right."

Sam wanted to recall his accusation when his brother's eyes held his, when Dean let his guard down enough for Sam to see beyond the big brother front to the man underneath, to the battle scarred, wounded soldier that his brother had become during their years apart.

"What should I have written to you about, Sam?" Dean hoarsely asked, face open, his question one of earnest, of confusion, of indecision. At Sam's hard swallow, at the flicker of pain in his brother's eyes, Dean slipped on his mask again, let his next words come out rough, harsh, devised them to push Sam away, to allow him to get the chance to reinforce his barriers that had faltered a moment before. "I know," he flippantly began, "How about '_Dear Sam, five of my friends died today and two others are probably Japanese prisoners._' Or maybe, '_Hey Sam, today I slit the throat of a kid that was probably barely old enough to drive._' Course there was always the '_Sam, I don't think I'm going to make it home. I know it's the last thing you want me to ask of you but would you please check up on Dad when you get home, at least for awhile.'_"

"Dean…" Sam choked out, needing his brother to stop, unable to handle hearing the horror his brother had gone through, the danger he had been in, the countless ways he could have lost Dean.

Dean cut across Sam's plea. "You didn't need to hear any of that Sam," his voice hard, his eyes dark as the stirred up memories mercilessly flashed through his mind.

"But I wanted to hear from you," Sam constricted throat made the words just above a desperate whisper. "Wanted to hear something, _anything_ from you. Even that. You didn't have to protect me, Dean."

Dean turned his head away from Sam, stared across the empty airport seating area, knew that Sam didn't get it, maybe would never get it. He was his little brother and no matter how old he got, he would always be his to protect.

Sam's forceful entreaty of "Dean!" had Dean leveling a steady, defiant look at his brother that told Sam that there was no winning this battle, not with words and not with even an atomic bomb.

But the hopelessness of winning didn't lessen Sam's frustration or temper his sharp memories of the paralyzing fear he had felt every time he learned about one of his brother's missions. "Right, you worry about protecting me while you're out there practically throwing your life away!"

"I didn't practically throw my life away! I did my duty, Sam!" Dean shot back, angry that Sam didn't know the difference, couldn't see that he had only done what was expected of him.  
"No, it was about Dad, about you trying to live up to Dad's expectations!" Sam nearly shouted back, finger pointing to Dean, shoulders raised. His control on his emotions slipping away at Dean's denial, at his brother's nonchalant attitude about the risks he had taken, about almost losing his life. "You really think Dad wanted some box of medals mailed home to him with your casket?! Are you stupid enough to think he wanted that instead of seeing you standing on the porch steps!?" he incredulously prodded, his anger and fear and frustration taking over.

Feeling like he was backed into a corner, Dean did what came naturally: he deflected, he taunted, feigned humor where hurt lay. "Hey, I was just trying to live up to the Winchester name. Get Dad some of the medals that he wanted and never got for himself. Give you a relative that had a military record that wouldn't embarrass you." Tilting his head as if in contemplation, he said, "Course a dead hero of a brother might have read better in your military transcriptions than…."

White hot fury washed over Sam, drowned out the rest of Dean's words, had him viciously grabbing his wounded brother by the lapels of his jacket and pulling him forward. It didn't register with Sam that his rough handling had toppled his brother's balance on his crutches, that the only thing keeping Dean from falling, either to the floor or into him was his brutal hold. Eyes boring into Dean's, he lowly growled through his clenched teeth, "Don't you say that! Not after all we've been through!" unconsciously giving Dean a shake in his grasp, refusing to let his brother's words have one moment of life, to let them stand as if they were truth. "Not after all the years I've spent worrying about you, not after I sat here thinking you might be…" his breath caught a moment before he could say the last word, though it shattered apart anyway, "dead."

Bowing his head, hiding his welling eyes from Dean, the flash of his teeth a cross between a hysterical laugh and a barely restrained sob, Sam stood there, hands still wrapped around his brother's flyboy jacket in a desperate grip as if it was the only anchor he had to sanity, to the life he wanted for himself, to the brother that was there but not there, was changed, was keeping him at a distance. "Don't do this Dean," he raggedly pleaded, head still bowed, voice so quiet it was barely audible. "Don't push me away. Not when all I've wanted since this war started was for us to be brothers again, for us both to be safe, for us to be together. Dean…" his brother's name a plea as he shook his head, felt a tear fly free of his face.

Out of all the terrible things Dean Winchester could endure, seeing Sam breaking was not one of them. Knew that would not change in a hundred years or even if a thousand wars sought to keep them apart. "Sammy," he gently said, love and affection and apology in the nickname. Hand slipping from his crutch to tenderly wrap around the back of his brother's neck, Dean, with the lightest pressure, beckoned Sam to him. Without hesitation, Sam raised his head and leaned forward until his forehead came to rest against Dean's. "We're together, Sam," Dean vowed as much as reassured as they stood there, leaning against each other, his hand still cupping the back of Sam's neck.

Reveling in the restored connection with his brother, with the knowledge that his bid for freedom years before had not irrevocably damaged what he and Dean had always shared, Sam contently rested his forehead against his brother's, could feel the reassuring beat of his brother's heart under his hand. Knew that he was home in all the ways that mattered

"We're safe, Sammy," Dean quietly breathed out, believing it for the first time in years, since Sam had walked away, since the first volley was unleashed at Pearl. _Safe_, echoed through him as he measured his breathing to Sam's, felt the solidness of his brother's treasured presence.

Careful to not dislodge Dean's hand on his neck, Sam lifted his head slowly to meet Dean's eyes. "You're hurt, Dean," he softly refuted, sounding so much like the scared, sensitive five year old he had once been that Dean's chest tightened.

"It's not anything that won't heal, Sammy." At the undiminished worry and skepticism in his brother's eyes, Dean added, "I promise, Sam, I'm alright." Sliding his hand to the side of Sam's neck, Dean gave a light reassuring squeeze to back up his words, to solidify his promise.

Sam nodded, accepting one of Dean's promises with strong faith, like he had a thousand times before. "You're alight except for still being a jerk, you mean," he teased but his voice was a little too tremulous to carry off the words, to dismiss the emotions that were still too powerful to lay to rest so quickly.

But Dean understood his brother's intentions, knew that Sam wanted to make him feel better, to steer them out of the emotional zone that his brother knew he hated to traverse. "A jerk?! Come on, I'm an awesome brother," he returned with mock hurt and brazen cockiness, taking the opportunity Sam had given to him to disentangle himself emotionally. Taking the opening, he physically withdrew his contact from Sam, pulled his hand free and positioning it again onto his crutch, determined to not unravel at the overwhelming, unexpected joy at this unforeseen welcome home gift.

Unable and unwilling to refute Dean's claim, even in jest, Sam gave a teary smile instead. He tried not to outwardly react as Dean released him, even as his own hands retained their two fisted hold on Dean's jacket.

Knowing that Sam deserved to know how he felt about him, what it meant to him that he was there, Dean quietly said, eyes warmly shining into Sam's, "Thanks for being here, Sam. For waiting for me. It's the best welcome home gift I could ask for."

His brother's sentiments were nearly too much for Sam to bear, proved to him that Dean did love him enough to show his vulnerabilities, loved him enough to forgive him for forgetting what was most important to him, who was most important to him. Faced with an overwhelming need to bawl into his brother's shirt like he had when he got lost when he was little and Dean had found him, Sam choose instead to adopt his brother's tactics. "Better than getting escorted off the plane by two gorgeous stewardesses?" he joked, knowing that Dean would still see his love for him through the deflection, could read the relief on his baby brother's features like a book, wouldn't miss the tears still gathered in his eyes. Would still know that what lay raw under their shared taunts and jokes and silent looks was a connection that hadn't been severed, even when thousands of enemy troops had kept them apart.

"Oh yeah, you're right. You're the second best welcome home gift I got…" Dean corrected, a cocky smile on his face and a light dancing in his eyes.

"Jerk," Sam laughed freely, playfully shoving Dean away from him, forgetting that Dean was hurt, was unsteady on his feet, not realizing that he was the only thing keeping his brother on his feet until Dean started to topple backwards. "Whoa!" Sam exclaimed, leaping forward and grabbing Dean by the shoulders. Finding his hold only shifted Dean's descent from back to sinking down as his leg gave out on him, Sam quickly changed his tactics, slid his hands around his brother's waist. "I gotch ya," he said, his words mingled with his brother's grunt of pain.

In an effort to offer some leverage against the whole falling-on-the-ground thing, Dean's hands clutched onto the front of Sam's uniform even as he braced his arms against his brother's chest and his bowed head nearly rested against Sam's collarbone. "Ah, crap Sam. Go find those stewardesses again," he breathed out through the pain emanating from his battered body.

"What? Why?" Sam quickly asked worriedly, eyes scanning the deserted airport for the two women he had ruthlessly pushed away from his brother.

"I want _them _to take me home." Raising his head with effort, he met Sam's frantic gaze and said with a suggestive raise of his eyebrow, "Woman love to nurse the injured back to health, you know. Give their own special brand of tender loving care."

A bark of laughter of pure joy burst from Sam at his brother's antics, as he realized how much he had missed his brother's sense of humor, the way Dean made him laugh, or the knack his brother had to make even the most simple, quiet days full of energy and life. "Oh, you'll get plenty of TLC at home," Sam reassured with a devious smile.

Surprised at how good it was to hear Sam say _home_, it took Dean a moment to react. With a warmth spreading through his heart now at the notion of home, of going home with Sam at his side, Dean snorted at his brother's claim, "Yeah, TLC: Winchester style. You'll act like I'm a cripple who can't do anything for himself and Dad will accuse me of milking my injuries to get out of chores."

Sam smirked happily at his brother. "Yeah, like I said, you'll get exactly what you need."

Knowing a losing battle when he saw one, Dean shook his head. Fortified enough against the pain to move, he pushed off of Sam's chest and resettled the crutches firmly under his arms. He regained his balance but Sam didn't relinquish his virtual bear hug until Dean gave him a threatening glare. Freed of his little brother's restrictive hold, Dean said, exhaustion creeping into his voice, "Well, then lead the way, Sammy. It's been a long couple of days."

"It's been a long couple of years," Sam clarified as he slid Dean's bag down his brother's shoulder, had to wait a beat before Dean slid his grip free of the crutch and allowed him to take the bag. Sliding Dean's bag unto his shoulder, he paced his brother's slow progress as they began to head for his own bag which he had left on the floor by the chair he had occupied all day. As they walked, he couldn't keep himself from looking to Dean, to reassure himself again that Dean was there, that they were together, that they had both survived. He just prayed that Dean would allow him the chance to just be his little brother again.

Looking to Sam, Dean could read his brother's apprehension, could just barely make out the emotional scars that the war had seared into his younger brother. "Too long," Dean admitted meaningfully, regret in the two words.

"Yeah, so let's not do it again, alright?" Sam softly returned, offering a promise as much as asking for one.

"The war part or the not talking part?" Dean lightly returned, needing to loosen the tightness in his chest, to not let on how hard the intervening years had been, how much weight they had added to his soul.

Stopping by his bag, Sam lowly answered, "Either," his eyes unflinchingly meeting Dean's, demanding that promise, certain he wouldn't survive either occurrence again.

"Yeah, sounds good to me," Dean seemingly agreed offhandedly but his eyes were serious, gave the oath solemnly, reverently. Bending down, Sam picked up his bag, added it to Dean's that was still slung over his shoulder. Then turning to his brother, he casually asked, "So how are we getting home?"

"What? Why's that my job?" Dean replied, pretending umbrage. A moment later, he offering up a smirk and tacked on, "After all, I'm the invalid."

"You're the big brother, that's why," Sam gave as an answer, like he had a million times when they were kids. Shifting the bags, he made no motion to move, left his expectant look resting on Dean.

The implications came slowly to Dean, made him study his brother, to see vulnerability where he had thought strength was harbored. Quietly Dean speculated, "You didn't tell Dad you were coming home today." When no protest rose in Sam's eyes and his brother unnecessarily readjusted his hold on the bags, Dean knew he was right. "You sat here all day and you never called him, let him know you were just a few miles away. Never asked him to come pick you up."

"I was waiting for you," Sam resolutely stated, did not confess that he wasn't certain that he would have ever gone home if Dean had not come, if Dean was not alive to go home with him.

"But you didn't even know for sure that I would arrive today, that I was even _alive_…not until you saw me," Dean quietly pointed out, not wishing to hurt Sam but needing to knock some sense into his brother. But Sam made no reply in defense or protest, simply stood there, gave him a sad, quick smile. "You could have had one long wait," Dean joked, trying to ease the tension between them as he started moving, heading for the exit.

Moderating his walk to stay even with Dean's hampered pace, Sam winced when Dean did as the forward motion jarred his battered body. "I wasn't going home without you, Dean," slipped out before Sam knew it, before he had fully evaluated the pros and cons of making the admission, before he could prepare himself for his brother's reaction.

Suddenly halting, his eyes shooting to Sam's, Dean saw the truth in his brother's features, watched as it mixed with Sam's apprehension. Knew he should reprimand Sam, get his brother to see that their father would have wanted him home, regardless if he himself never came home. Knew he should tell Sam that their dad needed him, had always needed him, not as a laborer but as a son, because they were family. But Dean didn't chastise Sam, was too overwhelmed by his brother's loyalty to him, love for him. Instead, Dean shook his head and gruffly said, "You're still as stubborn as ever," and set them both back in motion.

Recognizing that his brother's words were a compliment not a set down, catching the glimmer of tenderness in Dean's eyes, Sam shot back, "Hey I get it naturally." Coming to a stop as they exited the airport, Sam took his first breath of unfiltered Kansas night air, heard Dean's matching intake of air at his side. It felt right, being there, side by side, the clear night overhead showcasing the familiar range of stars that they had been deprived of for years.

Pulling his gaze from the sky, Sam looked left then right, was meet only with darkness, with quiet. Turning to Dean he joked, "Walking all fifteen miles might be a little hard for you. I mean even though the crutches are probably just a "prop" for female attention."

"I forgot how funny you think you are," Dean shot back with a tolerate flash of a smile even as he nodded his head to the right, a smugness entering his shadowed features.

Looking right again, Sam saw headlights cut across the darkness as a vehicle turned off the side road and headed for the small airport. Turning quickly to his brother, shock in his features, Sam incredulously asked, "Dad?"

But Dean snorted, "NO! Bobby. You think I wanted to listen to Dad's stories of "when I went off to war" the whole way home?! How he came home without a scratch on him, that he sent enough money home to keep the farm out of the red, that he wrote mom every day…"

"So you're saying you didn't write Dad daily?" Sam prodded teasingly, but he realized that he wanted to know the answer to the question, not to judge, maybe to compare. '_But I won't be jealous, Dean and Dad have always been close, even before I did my prodigal son routine_.'

"I'm saying that the money I managed to send home probably never got to him, that I obviously didn't make it through the war without a scratch," he tersely recounted, hands tightening on the crutches, his nervousness at facing his father rearing it's head again, even with the added reinforcement of Sammy at his side.

"Dean, he won't care about any of that. All he'll care about is that you're safe, that you're home," Sam guaranteed, surprised to have his brother's fear revealed to him, to be treated as Dean's equal not his little brother that needed to be discouraged from thinking ill of their father.

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed at Sam's prediction of his father's welcome, shaking his head, wishing again that he wasn't returning home looking so ….defeated, feeling so broken. "But we won, right?" he retorted, a sadness there, a touch of bitterness, eyes staying fixed ahead, across the dark expansion. "That's what matters, right. No matter the cost."

Hearing the sorrow in his brother's voice, the hurt, Sam turned to face Dean, looked at his brother's profile under the light given off by the airport overhang, saw the clench of his brother's jaw. "Dean, I'm sorry about the other men in your squadron that didn't make it _home_," his voice cracking on the last word because he knew only too well what it felt like to wait for someone you loved to be returned to you, the cold gut wrenching fear, believing that they would not be with you ever again.

Hearing the vulnerability in his brother's voice, Dean's eyes flickered to Sam's, saw the fading fear, the still too real hurt shimmering there. And for once, Dean didn't know what to say, how to ease Sam's pain anymore than he knew how to ease his own. Nodding, he looked away, thought about the friends he had lost over the years, the friends that had unknowingly died only a month from the end of the war. So close to making it home and yet ….

Viewing his big brother without his usual protective barriers, seeing Dean's pain, it gutted Sam, made him heart sick. And he didn't know how to make things right, how to help his brother, how to be the brother Dean had always been to him, always helping him, saving him, protecting him, turning his tears into laughter. That was Dean's gift, not his. All that kept running through Sam's head like a record that was skipping was, '_I'm glad __you__ made it home, Dean. I'm glad __you__ made it home, Dean…._until he couldn't help but utter it aloud, "I'm glad you made it home, Dean."

Slanting Sam a look, seeing the earnestness on his brother's face, hearing the catch in the familiar voice, Dean knew Sam's relief matched his own. That they both knew the incredible gift they had been given that, through all the losses they had each suffered and the dangers they had faced, they hadn't lost each other. "Yeah well… I know that's only because you don't want to have to work the south field with all the stones and holes," he belatedly shot back, projecting a gruffness he was far from feeling.

A quick smile sprang to Sam's face, "Well, of course. After all, that's _your_ field Dean. I think Dad specifically has it deeded off to you. You know, because it needs your type of nurturing, of care…"

"To hear my inventive string of curses.." Dean supplied, his own smile matching Sam's.

"Hey, like Dad always said, we do whatever we have to do to get the crops to grow," Sam said with a smirk, surprised to find their father's words becoming a source of connection for them instead of another wedge between them. But it was his brother's words that he remembered more sharply, words that he had railed against but had come to agree with over the years. "And like you said Dean," his voice serious now as his eyes held Dean's, "we do whatever we have to do to keep the farm going, to keep us all together."

"I say we did our part, Sammy," Dean responded, his voice reflecting just how much their part had cost him, had cost them. Pulling his smile back into place, he said, "Now let's hope Dad didn't decide to grow pumpkins again."

Sam's face screwed up in real horror. "No, he wouldn't? I hated those dumb things! He always thinks people will want to crawl through the fields and pick their own but we always end up having to do it."

"And some little bratty kid will say the pumpkin I picked isn't round enough…" Dean scowled.

"Or orange enough…" Sam growled, even as he fought to hide the smile at the memories.  
"Or big enough to cut a face into. Man, I hate Halloween," Dean petulantly said, would have scuffed his foot on the ground had he had more than one good one at the moment.

"I can't believe people are stupid enough to get all scared about what's in the dark…" Sam said with true scorn.

Dean snorted in agreement. "Yeah, 'cause we've been out working in the dark enough times to know what's out there."

"Nothing," they said in unintentional unison. When their heads snapped toward each other in surprise, their eyes held a moment before they broke out into simultaneous chuckles at their habit to still say the same thing at the same time. Some things even war didn't change, like them being brothers and the welcome sound of someone coming to take them home.

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TBC…because I still want their reunion with John and I'm hoping some of you do too.

Just a quick but heart felt note of thanks for everyone tuning in and enjoying the story! I always want to reply to reviews but then my energy just fizzles out by the time I manage to slap a TBC on a story. Please just know I'm loving your reviews and treasure your support.

And thanks to those of you who voiced a desire for a hurt Dean…you really twisted my arm to throw that into this story (NOT! I, of course, can't pen a story without that element.)

Have a wonderful evening!

Cheryl W.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: As can be expected out of me, I've thrown everything into this final chapter so it's a long one

Pearl Harbor 1941

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: As can be expected from me, I've thrown everything into this final chapter so it's a long one. (There were some really good suggestions in your reviews and PMs for this story so I just had to slide some of them into this tale.) Also, since I have never gotten a good grasp on John Winchester, accept my apologies if he seems out of character. Thank you again for spending time with this story and I really hope you enjoyed it.

SNWWIISNWWIISNWWIISNWWII

When Bobby Singer slid his 1939 truck to a stop under the airport's carport, his heart thudded in surprised joy at seeing not one uniformed clad Winchester standing there waiting for him, but two. For the second time that day, he knew that he could barely have felt more elation and relief at the sight of John Winchester's sons if they were instead his own. Had first come to grip with that truth when he had received Dean's telegram earlier that day…though he nearly had a heart attack when the telegram delivery man pulled into his lane. For four long, cruel years, a telegram was synonymous to a military car pulling up to your front door, officers in crisp uniforms telling you that your boy had given his life in the service of his country.

With nearly trembling hands he had stood out in his lane and opened the telegram wondering what ill fate could come his way, a man without sons of his own to lose. Surprising Marty the telegram boy and himself, he whooped in joy as he read the simple message: _Bobby - Airport. Midnight. Pick me up? Dean_. Dragging Marty inside for a drink of celebration, he had poured the second drink before he remembered John Winchester, that John was Dean's _father_, should be the rightful recipient of the telegram…of the good news. Questioning Marty, he had scowled at the news that no telegram had come in for John. It turned his celebratory second drink into a means to shore up his conviction to honor Dean's unspoken request to not tell his father that he was coming home, for him to come to the airport alone.

Picking sides seemed to be the Winchester's favorite game and Bobby had unwittingly become a player as soon as he let his guard down, let himself care about John and his reckless, troublesome boys. Cursing into his third drink, Bobby knew that there was no way he was going to betray Dean's trust in him, not even for John's peace of mind. Didn't know when his loyalty had shifted from the father to the eldest son, just knew that it had, somewhere along the line. Maybe it had started when he watched the boy alone carry the weight of saving his farm, of keeping his family together, grew when he saw how the young man learned to bury his pain, had solidified when he saw how oblivious John could be to both of his sons when he drown his sorrow at the loss of his wife, thought harvesting crops, providing for his sons, was the same thing as saying he loved them.

Now, his personal battle of loyalties washed away by the force of his happiness, Bobby gave a happy chuckle as he hopped from the truck and quickly rounded the vehicle. "You don't know how good it is to see both of you boys," he greeted, his wide smile evident in his voice, his glistening eyes taking in both of the Winchesters.

Ignoring Dean's outstretched hand, he instead wrapped his arms, albeit carefully, around the obviously wounded eldest Winchester boy and exhaled with joy and endearment in his voice, "Dean." Was surprised and warmed when Dean slipped one of his hands around him to return the hug, though Bobby knew it was a feat considering the crutches the wounded man was juggling. Pulling back, he reluctantly released Dean from his hold, even as his eyes retained their own tenacious hold on the younger man. "Guess it would have cost you more money to tell me in the telegram that you were hurt," he gently chastised, though his concern easily outshone any true reprimand.

"I didn't think…" Dean stammered at the other man's statement, having never given a thought to include that information, that it would matter to their old family friend that he was a little battered.

A sad glint sparked in Bobby's eyes at Dean's skewed view of his own self worth. Gently wrapping his hand around the left side of Dean's neck, he said with quiet understanding, "I know." He let that sink in a moment before he asked, his voice a little breathless with worry, "Are you going to be alright?"

Surprised at the genuine concern in Bobby's inquiry, Dean mutely nodded his head. But when the older man's eyes continued to search his own, Dean knew Bobby wasn't going to back down until he was satisfied that he had the truth. "It's nothing permanent. I'll be fine," Dean reassured, his voice low, vulnerable, his words lacking in flippancy.

Nodding in acceptance at the younger man's claim, Bobby slid his hand free of Dean's neck and then he turned to the youngest Winchester. "Sam, it's been awhile," he hesitantly began, uncertain how the taller boy would feel toward him after he had seemingly sided with the boy's Dad after the stirrup he and his father had. Sam's scared, fleeting smile assuaged Bobby's fears and had the older man's suppressed nurturing instincts springing to life. Pulling the taller boy down into a hug, he smiled when the hug was tightly returned.

Releasing Sam and standing back, Bobby smiled and his shining eyes swung happily from one brother to the other. "I can't wait to see your Dad's face when he sees the two of you coming home, together. He'll either have a heart attack or shoot me for not telling him about your telegram," his eyes shifting to Dean, a question in them.

Guiltily, Dean said, "Yeah, well…he'll have to take that up with me. I'm the one that sent the telegram to you." '_And not to him_,' he left unsaid, nor did he offer up any explanations as his eyes unflinchingly met Bobby's.

Instead of offering up a reprimand at Dean's actions or a complaint at the untenable position the young man's request had put him in, Bobby gave a soft reassurance, "Whatever's going on in that head of yours is wrong, Dean. He missed you, the both of you, nearly died of missing you, worrying about you. He would have been here, camped out all day waiting for you if he knew you were coming home today."

At the obvious similarity between Sam and their Dad, Dean couldn't help but slip his look to Sam. Seeing a blush coloring his brother's cheeks, he smiled, enjoyed the embarrassed yet happy look Sam returned to him. Maybe there was hope yet at keeping their family together.

"Alright, come on. Let's get you boys home to your Dad," Bobby said, slipping one of the bags off of Sam's shoulder and tossing it into the flatbed as Sam did the same with the second bag.

Maneuvering to the side of the truck, Dean wrapped his hand around the door handle, struggled to get the door open while maintaining his hold on his crutches. Almost instantly his brother was there, gently pushing his hand away and swinging the door open with ease. "Show off," he grumbled before nodding his head for Sam to jump in, to claim his standard middle position.

"No, you go ahead and get in Dean," Sam countered, barely biting back the 'I'll help you,' that was yearning to break free from him. He knew that being allowed to offer Dean help would require tactics, not an outward show of concern. "Here, let me take this," Sam said, grabbing the right crutch, giving it a slight tug only to find his brother's grip only tightening on it.

"Take it where, Sam? I'm kind of attached to staying upright," Dean groused, eyes burning into Sam's as he unknowingly admitting how much his injury had weakened him, was forcing him to rely on the crutches.

Dean's admission didn't pass by Sam, left him feeling oddly vulnerable, unused to being in the position to protect Dean, to take care of his older brother. "Yeah, well then it's a good thing I'm around," he quietly said, giving a gentle tug on the crutch, eyes meeting Dean's, knowing he was asking for their trust to shift, to start to balance out.

For a beat, Dean didn't move, just met Sam's look, knew in his heart that Sam was capable of helping him, apparently even _wanted_ to help him. Relinquishing his grip on the crutch into Sam's grasp, Dean leaned on his other crutch and watched Sam toss his crutch into the truck bed.

Stepping closer to Dean, Sam ordered quietly, "Ok, lean on me," slipping his arm around his brother's waist to support him. But when his fingers tighten around Dean's ribs, they unknowingly landed on another damaged part of his brother's body.

At the unintentional contact with his bruised ribs, Dean jerked back from Sam, barely cut off a groan at the reawakened source of pain. Stumbling, he nearly toppled into the truck's interior, would have if Sam hadn't reacted instantly.

Stunned and angry that he had hurt Dean further, Sam loosed his grip only to watch in horror as Dean's recoil caused him to lose his balance. Desperate to not let Dean's faith in him cause him pain, Sam sprang forward, wrapped one hand around his brother's right elbow and the other around his brother's left bicep. He pulled Dean back toward him until his brother's shoulder rested against his chest. Trying for casual, he guessed "Ribs too?" but sympathy and concern slipped into the two words.

"They are just a little sensitive.." Dean downplayed, though his voice was light, it was pitched too low, spoke of pain that his words did not. "You want to let go so I can get in the truck?" he grumbled, hoping to cover up his weakness, to put Sam on the defensive instead of nursing duty.

"Ah, yeah sure. Give me your other crutch," Sam agreed readily, too readily, causing Dean's eyes to narrow as he gave him an assessing look. "What? I'm not riding in there with your crutch flying around, hitting me in the face, Dean."

Unable to see through his little brother's words or logic, Dean released his grip on his left crutch and braced his left hand against the truck's seat to maintain his balance as if Sam wasn't there accomplishing that feat for him. Dean watched as Sam's face registered indecision before his brother released his hold on him, snagged the discarded crutch and tossed it unceremoniously onto the back of the truck before quickly slipping back to his side again as he started to make his move to get in the truck.

Wrapping his left hand in the fabric of the truck's seat, intending to half hop and half haul himself into the truck's interior, Dean had simultaneously begun to pull himself forward and push his good leg off the ground. He was wholly unprepared to have his brother's arm sweep under both of his knees, to find himself hoisted into his baby brother's arms. "Sam!" he growled in protest but Sam carefully settled him on the truck's seat before he could unleash a string of curses.

Unable to hide his brazen smile at his victory, Sam said, slapping Dean on his uninjured leg, "Now scoot over." A beat. "Or do you need another boost…" he taunted, eyes sparkling in the half shadowed interior of the truck.

"You 'boost' me again and you're going to be the one returning home looking worse for the wear," Dean threatened, wincing as he grappled to reach the middle of the truck's seat. He unleashed a heated glare to Bobby in case the older man wanted to join in on picking on him.

At the glare, Bobby only shook his head as if he couldn't believe he was made to actually acknowledge he even knew them. Secretly he was glad he sat in shadows so the smile on his lips didn't give away his contentment at seeing the interaction between the two brothers.

Climbing into the space Dean had vacated, Sam smiled over a fuming Dean to Bobby. "So it's Singer's Garage and Restoration now?" he said, reaching out the open window and tapping on the outside of the door where the painted advertisement was.

"Restoration might be a little too much," Bobby admitted with a rueful smile. "But I can scrounge up spare parts, install them and give the vehicle a new paint job. It doesn't make them new, doesn't wholly erase the damage but it keeps them running." He was surprised when Dean's eyes came up to meet his. There was something in the green depths he couldn't quite interpret, something that hadn't been there before the war.

Seeing Dean's reaction, Sam knew what had struck Dean because Bobby's words had affected him in the same way. "That's enough, Bobby," he quietly said, thinking about how he felt inside, damaged but still alive. That even though he didn't outwardly show his scars of war, they were there, same as Dean's were, hidden, buried, painted over but not gone, not healed, maybe never to be healed but, thank God, not visible to one and all.

When Dean looked to him in surprise and increased respect, Sam knew he had spoken for his brother. He didn't need to see Dean's small nod of his head, or hear his brother's quiet, "Yeah, it's enough," to know they still knew each other better than they knew anyone else. But Sam was touched by Dean's outward support, his subtle declaration that, though their war experiences may have been different, their scars, their pain was not.

Uncertain what had passed between the brothers, Bobby started the truck and put it into motion. As the truck bounced around the recently washed out road, he wondered how the heck he was going to convince John Winchester not to fill him with buckshot for holding out on him that his son, correction_, _his_ sons_ were headed home. Dean's exclamation a few miles into their trip after the truck had bottomed out in a particularly deep jut, jarred him from the worry.

"Crap Bobby! You think you could possibly try to miss driving into every crater," Dean gritted out between his clenched teeth, one hand bracing itself on the dashboard while the other was coiled under his left knee, trying to stabilize his wounded leg, to keep it from impacting again with the dashboard and the gearshift.

"Stop complaining about my driving, boy. I'm the one who's had to skip sleeping to haul you two boys home and might be facing a firing squad from your Dad. Maybe I should stop right here, let you _walk_ home," he threatened, easily slipping back into the give and take he and Dean had always shared, his head turning right to face Dean even though the darkness was too thick inside the car for their usual staredowns.

"Bobby…" Sam's quiet voice broke in, half way between a plea and a demand for a truce between the two combatants. "We really appreciate you picking us up," but his words were jarred as the truck lurked into the air when the tires hit a record breaking hole in the road.

Dean growled in pain and frustration, uncertain if his leg was hurting worst after that aerial feat or if his ribs were winning the 'pay attention to me' pageant as he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. It didn't register with him right away that the truck's speed decreased, took him a moment before his senses told him that he was the object of the two other truck's occupants' attention. "What?" he tiredly sighed, forcing his eyes open, finding what he knew he would: the two shadowy figures in the truck facing him, though Bobby's was a swivel of his head back and forth, road to passenger back to road.

"How long you been out of the hospital, Dean?" Bobby asked, quiet concern washing away the bickering of moments before.

"I'm fine," Dean snapped back as he started to shuffle upward again, to abandon his slumped position in the truck. But a hand pressed gently on his shoulder, kept him immobile. "Dean…" his brother's soft entreaty of his name confirmed the owner of the hand.

"How long, Dean?" Bobby's question turned to a demand while his head made more regular shifts his way.

"You want it in hours or days…" Dean glibly returned, offering up a smirk that was wasted in the dark. Bobby's curses were easier to handle than Sam's sharp intake of breath.

"Crap, Dean. You didn't get released from the hospital. You just left, didn't you?" Sam surmised, not liking the implications, wishing the moonlight would angle in the truck and show him his brother's face.

"I got discharged, Sammy," Dean insisted lowly, turning his head and lancing his look into Sam through the dark interior.

"From the Navy, not the hospital," Sam volleyed back, voice rising, seeing through the deception of his brother's reply.

"One out of two aren't bad odds," Dean joked back, his smirk unnoticed in the darkness.

Leaning forward, Sam suggested, directing his words to Bobby, "Maybe we should take him to the hospital in …"

"No," Dean cut in with a growl, raising his head from the seat, hand dislodging Sam's hold on his shoulder.

"Dean," Sam growled, frustration and concern in his voice as his look fell upon him.

"No, Sam. I'm fine…" Dean sharply argued, suppressing a wince as he sat more erect.

"Dean!?" Sam exclaimed in angry exasperation, turning in his seat toward Dean, though it only afforded him a sharper darkened outline of his brother's features.

Knowing when his brother was going to adopt John Winchester like stubbornness, Dean relented with a huff, "Alright, I'm not at one hundred percent but I don't need to be in the hospital anymore, Sam."

"Yeah, 'cause you're so qualified to make that decision," Sam said, his voice rising with his blood pressure.

"Yeah, Sam I am. What's…." Dean began, his voice matching the decibel of Sam's.  
"Alright stop it! Both of you!" Bobby shouted, drowning out Dean's words and Sam's protests, his eyes swiveling from the road to his two valued but still pain-in-the-butt passengers. "I'll have the Doc come round soon as he can to see Dean."

Dean's protest was almost instantaneous. "I don't…

Even as Sam started his own. "But…"

"Do you think I was making a suggestion?" Bobby thundered, the tone of his voice commanding enough to earn simultaneous, "No sir,"s from the two grown men. Surprised and humbled that the two military men would still show him that level of respect, Bobby shot a look to them, saw that they both were sitting still as rocks, eyes focused out the windshield, protests stowed away permanently. It was so reminiscent of the many times he had spent with the two Winchester boys as they grew up that Bobby felt his throat tighten up. '_Boy do I love these kids_,' surged through him, making him feel vulnerable and at the same time, like his world was better for the internal acknowledgement.

Into the quiet that fell in the truck he goaded, "You'll be happy to know your Dad insisted on planting pumpkins…" He wasn't disappointed by the reaction he got.

"No!" Dean protested. "I thought we had a deal that you would discourage him, Bobby!"

"Why did you have to tell me that tonight," Sam nearly whined.

Smiling, Bobby continued his lie with flare, effectively distracting Dean and Sam until he pulled the truck onto the lane that led to the Winchester homestead. Then it was if the air was sucked right out of the truck though the windows were open to take in the last warm breath of the lingering summer weather.

As the truck turned the final corner of the lane and the farmhouse was finally visible, light shafted through the kitchen windows like a beacon…leading wayward sons home. The truck's headlights reflected against the chipped paint on the house as Bobby brought the truck to a stop, turned off the engine and looked to the immobile sons of John Winchester. Bobby wished the light from the kitchen spread further, would spill across the interior of the truck, would allow him to see the expressions on Dean and Sam's face, even as he knew he didn't have a right to be a spectator to their tumult of emotions. It was private, personal, theirs alone to wrestle with, conquer, together, as they had so many other things in their lives.

The creak of the old farmhouse's door snagged Bobby's attention. Grimacing at the sight of John Winchester sighting a shotgun at the truck, Bobby knew that John didn't recognize the truck, could not make it out as it sat in the pitch black space of his driveway, the light from the kitchen not reaching the vehicle and the moon playing it's own cruel joke by slipping behind some clouds right then. Cursing his choice of friends under his breath, Bobby opened the truck's door.

"State your business," John Winchester's voice was a low menacing order as the shotgun in his hands didn't waver a millimeter from its intended target.

Sliding out of the truck, Bobby spat, "Put the gun down, you idgit! It's Bobby."

"What are you doing here at this hour of the night?!" John demanded roughly across the dark expansion that stood between him and his long standing friend. Waiting a beat, he reluctantly lowered the gun, but kept a two handed grip on the weapon as if he was still contemplating using it on his visitor, depending on Bobby's motives.

Inside the truck, both boys' breath caught at the sight of their father, at the sound of his voice, at the very real, bigger than life presence that was distinctively their father's. It was a startling revelation for Sam and Dean to discover that, for as much as war had changed them, had scoured away naiveté and hope and safety, it hadn't changed how either of them viewed their father: that there was safety to be found in their father's presence, that he could protect them when no one else could.

Breaking out of his stupor, Dean slapped Sam's thigh. "Sam, get out of the truck before Dad shoots Bobby," amusement and a slice of apprehension in his tone.

Instinctively obeying Dean, Sam climbed out of the truck, left the passenger door open so his brother could join him, could stand with him. With his dad haloed in the light from the house, Sam called out, his voice quiet, uncertain, "Hey Dad."

At the sound of his youngest son's voice coming out of the darkness before him, John Winchester felt his famed nerveless fingers fail him as the gun nearly slipped from his trembling grasp. "Sam?" he choked out, longing and hope and shock and joy in the name of his son. Standing frozen a moment, his heart thundering in his chest, he nearly tripped down the steps as he pushed his unsteady legs into action. He had to reach the tall figure standing by the truck before Sam disappeared, before he woke up, before he realized this was yet another alcohol induced vision. "Sam?!" he called again, desperate to hear that cherished voice again, to have more proof that all this was real, that the son his pride had pushed away was being returned to him.

Blindsided by the emotions in his father's voice, Sam had to clear his throat before he spoke again. "Yeah, Dean and I just flew in." Feeling more grounded as he tied his brother to him, established a united front.

"Your brother's with you?" John stammered, disbelief and overwhelming joy and relief swamping his emotional barriers as he stalked across the gloriously short distance that separated him from his youngest son, from his oldest child. A distance that had the power to break him free from the lonely, terrifying existence he had nearly drowned in over the past years. Could lead him to the only future he ever cared about: His sons' future, a future that, God willing and with his children's forgiveness for his past transgressions, they would share with him. A future where they would live their days together, as a family.

"Yeah, Dad. Dean's here, too," Sam reassured, his words cracking as the scene he had tried to envision a hundred times over the years was playing out at last.

Finally reaching his son, eyes searching the beloved face illuminated by the sliver of the newly returned moonlight, John breathed, "Sammy," a sob in his voice. Then he pulled his son tightly into his arms like he would never let him go, vowed that he would never let pride again steal away what was precious to his heart: his sons. "Kiddo, it's so good to have you back home where you belong, Sammy," he said, tears thickening his voice, his son's chin resting on his shoulder and Sam's hands encircled him tightly.

His father's words were like a shout to Sam, expressed his father's unmistakable love for him, his terrible regret at having pushed him away, his need to have him back with him. It was everything Sam had railed against, had walked away from: belonging, needing, wanting. Sam had abandoned it all, had abandoned his father, his brother for a destiny he thought would be greater, would mean more, foolishly thought would make him happier.

Knowing his father was offering to restore what he had once abandoned, Sam breathed out with love and acceptance, "Dad…" He clutched to his father, to the man whose love and respect was something he had tried to live without, to not need, tried and failed miserably. Just as he tried to live without his brother's presence in his life, tried to pretend happiness could be had when he felt half of himself was missing, was out flying a Navy plane, flirting with every pretty girl, was trying to protect everyone. Instead, he found his greatest happiness where he had thought it would never exist, right where he had discarded it, on the soil of his own home, at the feet of his brother and his father. He gave a happy, emotional laugh of joy as he released his father, saw the tears welling in his father's eyes, the love glimmering even in the poor visibility.

Turning to the dark interior of the car, to the figure cast fully in shadow, John quietly beckoned, "Dean?" a spike of fear evident in his voice. Felt unnerved by his son's motionlessness, frightened at the notion that he might have been blessed with Sam's forgiveness but not Dean's. That his son had built up resentment at him, that he had made him choose sides between his brother and him, that he had made him carry the weight of the family's survival on his shoulders since he was four, that he had been more commanding officer than father for most of the years and instances of his life.

"He's hurt," Sam quickly interjected, afraid his father would command Dean to get out of the truck, would generate a stubborn yet faithful response in Dean that would further injury him.

Sam's declaration broke Dean out of his confusion over his need to obey his father and the need to scamper away at his father's call. "I'm alright, it's just a graze," he curtly denied, feeling embarrassed by the attention, by his brother's worried tone, by the weakness he wouldn't be able to hide once he left the truck.

Not natured to run away, no matter if a tsunami of hurt was headed his way, Dean started to slide over the seat toward the door, consequently toward his father. He heard Sam wrestling his crutches from the truck bed and he began gearing himself up to maneuver from the truck, to stand on his own, to prove that, even if he looked a little worse for the wear, he wasn't weak, wasn't a failure to the standards his father had always esteemed him to reach.

Stepping closer to the truck, knowingly blocking Dean's way out, John struggled to see his son's shadowed featured.

"Here's his crutches," Sam announced, coming to his father's side as he angled the crutches into the truck's interior, into Dean's somewhat reluctant grip.

"Grazed where?" John asked in a voice void of command, or reprimand, drenched instead in near panic, anguish.

"His left leg," Sam supplied, wishing he could see Dean's eyes, could see whether his brother ranked his actions as a betrayal or what they were: his honest concern for a brother he adored. "I think he might have some cracked ribs, too," he added, in for a pinch in for a pound.

"Thanks for the report, Doctor Winchester," Dean snapped, lancing an ineffectual glare to his sibling across the darkness. Having managed to swing his legs around to dangle out the door, he sat there, took a moment to steady himself, to make sure the crutches were resting correctly under his arms.

Distressed by the tally of his son's wounds, and ashamed at his obvious influence that had Dean deflecting his brother's concern, concealing weakness of body with the unquestionable strength of his willpower, John had to choke down a sob, to tell himself that there was time yet to undo the harm he had done to his oldest child, to Mary's sweet baby. Reaching his hand out, he rested it against Dean's chest, halted his son's intentions to show him that he wasn't hurt, wasn't weak, didn't need help from callused hands that Dean had learned the hard way would not help him, would instead withdraw from him to teach him about strength, about standing on his own, about being a man…even when he was four years old.

"Dean, I'll help you out of the truck," John quietly said, voice pitched just right so it wouldn't shatter, that his son wouldn't see that the real weakness was not his, was instead his father's. Maybe had always been.

"Dad, I don't…" Dean began to refute, tightening his grip on the crutches, ready to give his father what he wanted to see: a hero returning home, a son that was a credit to him, to the family name.

"Dean," John interrupted in a tone Dean's had heard from his father only once before, when his dad had stood by his mother's grave, had said "Mary" as if it were the most beloved word and the most heartbreaking one. When the glitter of a tear sparkled in the moonlight as it slid down his father's cheek, as his father let down his barriers, Dean felt lost. This was not the world he knew anymore.

"Just trust me son," John entreated, even as he knew he didn't deserve that honor, not from this son, from either of his sons.

Dean's response was instantaneous, his trust in his father as much a part of him as his bond with Sam. "You know I do," his voice choked, a tinge of the hurt little boy lurking in the oath.

Dean's unreserved trust, it was more than John could have hoped for, ever allowed himself to need. But he didn't waste time marveling at the wholesomeness of Dean's heart, didn't want to let a moment pass that would incite doubt to flicker in his son's eyes. Moving left, he slide his hand to Dean's back, felt his son's spine under his fingers before he wrapped his arm around Dean's waist. When Dean's hand came to rest on his shoulder, he felt grounded, like his internal compass had stopped spiraling out of control.

"Ready?" John asked, eyes still robbed from a clear view of his oldest, _hurt_ son.

"Yeah," Dean said, bracing himself for the pain, barely suppressing a groan when he and his father both determinedly put him into motion.

Hearing the sharp painful intake of his son's breath nearly in his ear, John wanted to stop, to deviate from any action that brought Dean pain, wanted to abandon the crutches, the manly roles they had adopted so long ago and simply carry his wounded son home. Gritting his teeth instead, John slowed his pace, let Dean slide gently from the truck until his good leg was on solid ground. Because, though Dean was his child, he was a man now, a soldier, a hero, and he deserved to have his weakness treated with respect not coddling, not even when it was a father's right to protect his son, to shelter him from pain of any type.

Watching as Dean resettled the crutches into place, John waited a beat until his son raised his eyes, until the moonlight gave him what his heart had desired for longer than he could bear to count: to see his son's face again, to read the green eyes that knew him so well, to see the son that hadn't given up on him, had not cursed him when Sam left, had not abandoned him even when his own actions seemed to be pushing him away as clearly as his words had pushed Sam away.

Even in the pale gleam of light, John could see that the love for him hadn't faded in his son's eyes, was still a beacon to him amid the worst this life had to offer. With an exhale that was more sob than breath, John gently enfolded Dean into his arms, rested his chin on his son's ever so capable shoulders. "I've missed you so much, kiddo."

"Me too, Dad," Dean declared, his voice low but steady, his barriers not so easily discarded, even in light of joy that had his eyes burning.

"I can't believe both of my boys are home with me," John released a choked laugh of happiness, pulling back from Dean only far enough for him to be able to pull Sam into their hug.

Sliding one arm behind his Dad's back and the other on Dean's, his head bent to rest on Dean's, Sam felt his own tears track down his face. Knew that no matter how hard the road had been to get right there, it was worth it. All the pain and the loneliness and the fear…it was water under the bridge of what he had rescued from the ashes, what Dean and his father had protected and fought for and given back to him, whether he deserved it or not.

Spectator to the Winchester reunion, Bobby felt his own throat tighten up, was annoyed that he had gotten drawn into this crazy family of three, that he cared enough about each of them to know the depth of emotions still hidden under their layers. "I would be getting all misty eyed too if it wasn't the middle of the night," he groused after a few moments, was rewarded with chuckles as the threesome broke apart, turned their attention onto him. "I might even shed a tear if someone thought to promise me a drink on them the next time we hit town. You know, for my time and my expense and my…"

"Drink?!" John growled, turning to his faithful friend. "I was thinking of shooting you full of buckshot for not telling me my sons were coming home."

Wanting to deflect the blame from Bobby _and Dean_, Sam jumped in, "We wanted to surprise you."

John's eyes met his son's…his oldest son's. "That right, Dean?" he quietly asked and there was suspicion and command in there.

Knowing Dean had never been one to lie to his Dad, Bobby snorted, "See Dean. I warned you that he would be all indignant about it. Never met a man so adverse to good news just because he doesn't see it coming."

"I like good news, Singer," John shot back with a smirk, his focus again on Bobby. "The only thing putting a shadow on this, one of the happiest moments of my life, is your ugly mug."

Pointing a finger at John, Bobby countered, "That just cost you three more drinks, Winchester. I'll be collecting them within the week. Now I'm heading home…" his eyes met Dean's, "unless you need anything more from me." Offering the eldest Winchester boy what he always did, an open door of shelter against the turbulent relationship of the Winchester clan, a willing ear and the occasional shot of moonshine.

"Thanks Bobby. I'll make good on the debt," Dean vowed, more grateful for the older man's reliability and friendship than he could voice.

Dean didn't notice the jealous, wistful look that flickered a moment in his father's face at the tone of his voice, where his gratitude, his trust was unabashedly evident. But Bobby saw it, gave his old friend a quick look and nearly shook his head. Didn't the fool see yet that he had molded his sons to hide their feelings, to build barriers, especially from him. And that it would take more than one shining moment of emotional release for the walls to come down, for his sons to know that he wouldn't think less of them if they showed him how they felt about him.

Determined to spend the time it took him to drink his four drinks opening John Winchester's eyes on a few hard truths, Bobby again focused on the two boys he had missed more than he should have. "Glad to have you both home. Night," he bade as he climbed in his truck, waited until Sam retrieved their bags from back before he set his course for his house, his own eyes welling in the solitary darkness. "Singer, you're getting soft in your old ago," he groused but it didn't dampen his smile.

Drawing up to his brother's side, Sam waited until his father turned away from watching Bobby's truck, took up his rightful spot on Dean's other side. Exchanging looks, the three Winchesters moved forward together, Sam and John careful to match their pace to Dean's, hands ready to spring forward and catch Dean if he lost his balance.

Dean maneuvered the few stairs easily, pretended not to notice that his father's hand was on his back and his brother's hand hovered by his elbow. Entering the kitchen after his father, Dean stopped, felt sensory overload at the familiar setting, at the shout that echoed in him. _He was finally home_.

At first concerned at Dean's abrupt halt, Sam stood at his brother's shoulder, was about to ask Dean if he was OK when he saw the content expression on Dean's face. Shifting his own look where his brother's lay, Sam felt his breath hitch in his chest. The kitchen had not changed much, still had the same appliances scattered about, the same set of his mother's teacups displayed above the cupboards, bore the same wallpaper, though a little more wall peeped out from behind it. And the table, the chairs were the same ones he and his brother and father had occupied every morning, every evening, passing food around, planning their next crops, _laughing_. He had forgotten the laughter, had forgotten excitedly planning to go with his family to county fairs, the many challenges tossed across the table between he and Dean on who would win that day's race along their long lane. He had forgotten the happiness that had been his, here, layered along with a million other emotions that he had chosen to focus upon instead.

Turning to face his sons, John felt his chest tighten at their matching looks of wonder, of contentment as they hungrily looked around the room, realized that they were truly home. "The old place hasn't changed much, a little more rundown probably than you remembered but still …your home," he began glibly but nearly faltered at the last two words. His sons were _home_.

"No it's….yeah," Dean stammered, shaking his head and moving forward to stand beside his father as if he weren't nearly speechless.

"It's the same," Sam breathed in wonder, turning around to sweep his eyes across the room, to pear into the dark recessing of the adjoining rooms. With a beaming smile, he looked to his father and brother and gave a short laugh. "Just like I remembered."

Nodding his head, it took John a moment to swallow and be able to talk. "You boys hungry? I could whip up some eggs or…"

"No sir," both boys tiredly said, smirks turning up their lips as their eyes met across the kitchen.

Hearing his sons speaking in synch like they had so many years ago, John didn't think his emotional fortification could bear more without sending him into sobs of relief. "I'm sure you boys are beat. We can talk in the morning," he said, calling an intermission to their reunion as much for their benefit as his own. Receiving nods from them both, he looked to Dean. "Dean, will you need help with the stairs?" his pretenses of not caring, of being able to stand to see his son struggle, at an end.

"Nah, I got 'em mastered," Dean insisted, starting to make his way toward the stairs that would lead to his bedroom. His father flicked on the lights to the other rooms a moment before he entered them but stood at the bottom of the stairs as he began to climb them. Sam was less restrained, he was so close Dean thought his little brother might have his foot on the same stair he did as he made his slow progress upward. Gaining the doorway to his room, Dean felt both relieved and exhausted as his journey was nearing its end. Turning on the light and stepping into his bedroom was like that first look at the kitchen all over again, left him emotionally spinning.

Slipping past his brother, Sam entered his brother's bedroom, felt his throat tighten up as the memories hit him. Depositing Dean's bag onto the room's chair, he fidgeted a moment with the strap, trying to get his game face on before he turned to his brother. "I'll let you use the bathroom first," he said, his eyes doing a quick hit and run with Dean's before he slid by his brother and was out the door.

"Guess being the invalid has its advantages…" Dean murmured under his breath as he was left alone in his room, to his own memories. Mentally shaking himself into action, he headed for the bathroom, knew that the reservoir of energy he still had was pushing empty, that if he stopped for too long he would never get moving again.

A few minutes later, he exited the bathroom but pointedly waited until he was in his bedroom's doorway before calling out, "Sammy, bathroom's all yours."

Smiling at the sound of the nickname coming from his brother, Sam put his baseball trophy back onto the shelf, left his bedroom and made his way to the bathroom. Changed and ready for bed, Sam turned off the light and left the bathroom. But he hesitated at returning to his room, torn between crawling to his bed and needing to make sure his wounded brother didn't need anything. His feet were walking toward Dean's room before he knew it. Halting in the doorway, he sighed out "Ah, Dean," in tender worry, exasperation and adoration at the sight highlighted by the moonlight shining into the room of his fully clothed brother sprawled out on top of the covers.

Quietly crossing the threshold of the room to his brother's side, Sam stood there a moment looking down at his brother's profile, a warm smile on his face before he deftly began untying his brother's shoes. When he slide one shoe free, Dean mumbled but didn't wake up, only sank deeper into the bed. Removing the other shoe didn't even cause any reaction. Biting his lip, Sam contemplated methods to get Dean under the covers, knew that he didn't want to chance further aggravating his brother's injured ribs by moving him much. With his options limited, Sam folded the made bed covers over his brother's still form, settled them as high on his brother's back as he could without cocooning his head. Satisfied if not content with his success, Sam turned to go, was about out the door when Dean's soft sleepy call reached him, "Night, Sammy."

Turning, Sam could barely detect any change in his brother's form, wondered if Dean was wishing him goodnight in his dreams. "Night, Dean," he quietly said a smile still on his lips as he padded to his own bedroom next door.

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Feeling somewhat like an eavesdropper in his own house, John stood rooted at the bottom of the stairs, hardly believing that the voices he heard were real, were not echoes from years ago. That his sons were home, had not died in some foreign country, were not gone from him, by their choice or by fate's.

At his boys exchanged good night wishes, his restraint crumbled, sent him crashing down to his knees on the hardwood floor of his living room. "Mary they are home, your boys are home. They came back to me," he choked out amid the sob stuck in his throat. "And I'm going to make things right this time, I'm going to be the father you expected me to be, that they deserve. I know it's a little late, that they don't need me, need a father anymore but I need them, Lord knows I need them."

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Dean jolted awake, uncertain if it was the nightmare or the cramp in his leg that had jerked him from sleep. Curling up in his bed, he sent his fingers coiling around his left calve, tried to massage the seized muscles free. But the traumatized leg was not so easily appeased, instead the pain spiked higher, made Dean grunt in frustration. Abandoning the notion that anything short of walking on the leg would give him relief, he started to surge from the bed onto his feet only to find his quick motion only added to his misery as his ribs venomously protested. With one hand clutching his leg and the other wrapped around his jilted ribs, he determinedly rolled off the bed, had to throw a hand out to the mattress to keep himself off the ground as his left leg crumbled under him.

Cursing, Dean pushed himself upright, forced his right leg to take most of his weight, while he tentatively pressed his left foot onto the floor, allowed it to take only a small measure of his weight. Wincing he hobbled the length of his bed toward the door, his hand hovering above the mattress, ready to seek an anchor if he felt himself going down. The cramp eased only marginally as he came to the end of his bed. When he turned around to pace back the way he had come, he lost his precarious balance as his left leg refused to continue to take any of his weight. Even as he flung his hand out to the bed, he knew it would not be enough leverage to keep him off the floor. He was startled when strong arms encircled his chest, averted his ungracious rendezvous with the floor.

"Sam, you still spying on me," he breathlessly asked, embarrassed that his brother was an audience to his show of weakness even as he reached his hand to his calf, desperately still trying to loose the coiled muscle. But it was his father's voice that made a reply.

"Just take it easy, Dean. I've got you," John quietly said, his tone gentle, his words full of strong reassurance as he drew closer to his son, settled Dean's back against his chest to steady the younger man.

Dean tensed at the knowledge that his father was the witness to his near collapse. But mingled within him was a sense of comfort that his dad was there, was willing to offer him help amid his mortifying failure to be as strong as his father wished him to be.

"What are you doing out of bed?" John asked his concern leaving no room for a trace of reprimand.

"Cramp in my leg," Dean admitted, voice tinged with discomfort as he vainly clutched onto his leg, willing the pain to go away.

Visually tracing his son's arm down to his frantic grip on his left calf, John grimaced in sympathy at his son's pain. "Alright, let's get you on your feet," John stated with the same gentleness as his next actions. Levering Dean to a standing position within his arms, he drew his son's arm over his shoulders. "Let me do most of the work walking, just put a little pressure on your leg," he instructed as he began to aid Dean to walk slowly around the room.

They both blinked as the room light flickered to life, revealed a sleep tousled Sam standing in the doorway. "What happened?" anxiety making his tone sharp and his eyes narrowing menacingly onto his father, proving to John that Sam was still Dean's greatest protector.

"Just felt like a walk," Dean wise cracked before he gave a choked moan as his leg again betrayed him.

Gravitated forward, Sam flew to his brother's unsupported side, added his strength to his father's to keep his brother from further hurting himself.

"Alright, let's get him into bed," John ordered, working in perfect synch with Sam to accomplish the feat without jostling Dean. "Lay down Dean," he said even as he and Sam did the work of the action, Sam pressing his back onto the bed, while he gently lifted Dean's legs onto the mattress. Taking a seat on the bed by his son's wounded leg, he lifted Dean's pant leg.

Startled, Dean rose his head to look at John when his father's callused but gentle hands began to massage his calf. Moments later the action began to do its miracle, to slowly knead away the contraction in his muscle. Settling his head back heavily onto the pillow, Dean drew in a shaky pain free breath. "Thanks."

John didn't abandon his ministrations but instead softened them, hoping to ensure that the muscle wouldn't seize up in the near future. He was careful to keep his touch away from the bandaged section of his son's leg but it didn't stop his eyes from being drawn there, wondering truly how bad the wound was. He swallowed hard as he remembered the wounds he had seen in the great war, of men broken and dying. He didn't notice that both of his sons were watching him in wonder, at the gentleness he was capable of, at seeing the marked anguish on his face

"Dad, it's better," Dean quietly announced, causing his father's eyes to fly up to his and his hands to still.

"Ok," John quietly said, as he reluctantly slid Dean's pant leg back into place and pulled his hands free of his son. Looking up, he was caught by the question in his sons' eyes but what he noticed was the change that had come over the eyes that beheld his. His sons were no longer boys, were men, had been soldiers, forced to see the horrors man was capable of unleashing on his own kind.

"I know we never really talked about my war experiences…"he began, his voice low as his dark eyes slid from Dean's gaze to Sam's.

"Dad, you don't have …" Sam began, wanting to headoff his father's words, to tell his father that he didn't need to open up, that they understood one another just fine.

But John cut Sam off, needed to bridge another chasm that the war had constructed between him and his sons. "I need you to know that I've been where you have, felt what you're both feeling right now." His look encompassed Dean and Sam. "I lost people I cared about, watched people die who I was supposed to protect." His eyes met Dean's. "I was their wingman," before shifting to Sam's, "I was supposed to have the right intel to get everyone out alive."

Shaking his head, John dropped his eyes and drew in a breath before facing his sons again. "I lived when others died, I lived _because _some of my friends died," and he hated the flicker of guilty pain he saw in Dean's eyes before his son dropped his eyes from him. "It ripped me apart and I thought, if I just get back home, to Mary, to you boys, it would be like it was, I would be like I was. But it wasn't, I wasn't."

Sorrow and regret and helplessness simmered in John's swimming gaze to his sons. "I wish I could take all this away from you, make it like it was, put you back the way you were, make you forget every horrible thing you were forced to see, to experience but I can't. I couldn't for myself and I can't for you."

Dean swallowed thickly, "How did you deal with it, being changed, feeling…" but he faltered at that confession but the look in his father's eyes told him that John knew exactly what he was feeling.

"Guilty?" John supplied quietly. "Feeling guilty for surviving, for having a family to come back to, for finding myself happy, that I had future when so many good men didn't?"

Sam nodded in reply instead of Dean.

"I learned to accept that I was changed, that the boy I was had died in one of the battles I forgot but the man I had become walked away, battered but alive. And I tried to replace guilt with gratitude, with love for what so many of my friends had died for: for family, for home, for a future …even if it wasn't going to ever be theirs. I couldn't make their sacrifice be in vain. I figured the best way to honor them was to hold your mother tighter, scoop you boys into my arms and treasure what I had."

With a catch in his breath, John surged from the bed, turned his back on his sons, tried to not break down. "I know I've lost my way since your mother died. I forget that lesson, to treasure what I had…not grieve forever what I lost." Turning around to face his sons, unchecked tears on his face, he confessed, "When you boys were gone, it nearly killed me. And the thought of losing one of you…it scared me so badly. You two are all I've got. You've been what's kept me going all these years, making me smile, making me laugh, making me glad every day that I was alive. You two did that and I never thanked you."

"It's just what family does for each other, Dad," Sam quietly replied, his gaze shifting to Dean's where he was rewarded with his brother's proud smile.

"Yeah," John breathed out, a smile turning up his lips as he looked at the two fine young men he was honored to call his sons. "You're right Sammy," he laughed, wiping his tears away. "Well you two better get some rest, I've got a 'to do' list for you boys that's longer than my arm."

"Sammy, is it too late to reinstate my commission in the Navy?" Dean mumbled to which he got a resounding "yes," from his brother and father.

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Standing under the Kansas sun, the three Winchesters quietly viewed the field that was once their farm's best soil but was now only a tangle of underbrush and weeds. John spoke in his sons' stunned quiet.

"I was letting it.." '_rest_' he almost said but found he couldn't tell that lie, didn't want to hide his love for his sons from them anymore. "I was waiting for you," he confessed, he didn't shy away from his sons' probing look. "That field…" but his voiced cracked as he remembered Dean crashing the crop plane there, Sam learning how to drive a tractor there, the boys playing ball and flying kites there, Mary dropping seeds into the ground, her big straw hat on and her smile brighter than the sun. "It's got some good memories of us, our family," he tremulously pointed out, eyes again on the field.

"Yes sir," Dean and Sam said in unison, their voice as emotional as their father's, each remembering their own fond memories in that particular field.

Getting himself back in control, John turned to Sam, "Well, tomorrow you can help me clear it off."

As John turned his back to Sam, Sam shot Dean a 'you lucky dog' look because his injuries precluded him of partaking of this family venture.

Dean barely wiped the boasting smile he had directed to Sam off his face before he found himself toe to toe with his father. "And, Dean, you can work on cleaning up the accounting books." Putting a hand on Dean's shoulder, John smiled evilly. "I haven't kept up with 'em for a few years."

Shooting Sam a pleading look, Dean was about to suggest a change in their roles but John spoke up first, "And no swapping chores, boys. Now let me show you the work that the south field needs before the month's out."

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It was a clear, tepid night, perfect for sitting on their porch swing, watching the stars overhead and relearning how to just be brothers again. To let the past six years take a backseat to their childhood memories, to the unequaled comfort of the two of them talking, saying whatever they wanted to say.

As their shared laughter quieted down, Sam couldn't fight the wide smile that wanted to permanently decorate his features.

Seeing his brother's nearly goofy expression, Dean prodded, "What?"

"What? Ah nothing," Sam returned, his smile unchecked, even as he sees Dean's eyebrows arch in a demand for answers. Relenting, he admitted, "I missed this," contentment in his voice.

"Kansas?" Dean quietly asked and he watched Sam shake his head. Then he was blessed with Sammy's look of happiness and hope.

"Home," Sam clarified, knowing he meant more than a country or a state or even a house. "You and Me. Dad too."

"Yeah me too, Sammy. Me too," Dean agreed, his own eyes sparkling with happiness, with relief that he had gotten what he wanted six years ago, for his family to be together.

A companionable silence fell between them as they treasured what they had and remembered and thanked those who had given it to them, sometimes at the cost of their own lives. Peace.

Stepping out onto the porch, John smiled at the sight of his boys sitting right where they had sat mostly every night before bedtime as they grew up. "Dean, you take the medicine that doc brought for you."

"Yes," Dean replied even as Sam tattled, "No," which earned him a punch to his leg.

Reaching a hand down to Dean, John was met only with a small flare of resistance before Dean slid his hand in his and allowed him to pull him to his feet. "And the doc said to change your bandages tomorrow morning," he reminded, steel in his voice because no matter how old Dean got, he was still his son.

"Yes sir," Dean automatically replied as he snagged his crutches from his brother's of so helpful hands and began making his way into the house to follow his father's orders. A moment later, Sam surged out of the swing and was squeezing through the house door before it closed behind Dean, hoping to cutoff any retaliation his brother would make for his tattle telling.

John smiled as he heard his boys' raised voices, "Ah Dean! You know my shoe isn't going to be dry by morning!"

"Sorry, I was getting my medicine like a good boy when your shoe accidentally fell into the sink."

"My shoe that was lying on the floor, Dean?"

Hearing their voices fading as their bickering continued as they headed to bed, John smiled, felt like he had been given a second chance, that he had made his way through the pain to a new path, a path he would travel with both of his sons. Looking up to the night scattered with stars he quietly said, "Thank You for bringing both of my boys home to me, Lord." '_Mary, I've remembered how to treasure what I love and to value the cost that was paid for them. You'll be proud of me from now on, course not as proud as I am of Dean and Sam. I'll never be the great man that each of our sons are, guess that's because they are the best of both of us and the best of each other_.'

Still smiling, John entered the house, laughed when he heard his sons' voices carry to him, each planning their revenge for the nights' antics. Peace had been won for the world but peace in the Winchester house…that was something John Winchester had had four years of and it had almost been the death of him. Crossing to the sugar container and salt shaker, he unscrewed the lids, ensuring that a peaceful breakfast was the very last thing he would have to suffer through in the morning or the years ahead.

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THE END!!

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I'm honored and humbled by the sacrifice and dedication of those that have served in the military in the years past and those that are fulfilling those duties today.

This story is dedicated to my grandfather who passed away last year. He never let the horrors of his experiences in Word War II harden his heart to love, to his family or to the belief in a future of peace.

Thank you all for reading this story, for allowing me to slip the boys into pretty uniforms in my imagination and letting me honor them as the heroes that they truly are.

Wishing you Peace and Hope on Memorial Day and always.

Cheryl W.

14


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